


A Fresh Bouquet

by Tsume_Yuki



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Probably not a good example of a healthy relationship, Self Insert, Unexpected Pregnancy, and off a Dark Lord, on Voldemort so it's all okay, premeditated murder, two idiots trying to stumble through life
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-18
Updated: 2018-07-27
Packaged: 2018-12-03 16:49:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 43,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11536362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tsume_Yuki/pseuds/Tsume_Yuki
Summary: Reborn into the world of Harry Potter, Poppy Evans has only one goal; make sure she's not the only magical Evans alive by 1982. And maybe save that smug Potter while she's at it. Regulus Black didn't fit into the equation; he wasn't suppose to be so distracting. A Mature SI fic





	1. Chapter 1

 

 

 

Forearm braced against the hard stone wall to her back, Poppy Evans meets the glare of Regulus Black, taking careful note of the funny little quirk to his lips.

His eyebrows are furrowed, sharp grey eyes just staring uncomfortably into her own.

She opens her mouth, to demand he get over whatever insult he was about to throw, but the need dies when he shakes his head with a scowl.

"This is stupid."

"Wha-" the last of her question is swallowed when lips press against hers. They're insistent, taking without once asking and Poppy responds in kind.

 

 

 

 

She had first met Regulus Black when they were eleven. Both fresh faced, unsorted first years boarding the train at Kings Cross Station that was bound for Hogsmeade.

He had been pompous, rude, and a whole slew of other nasty words. He still is now.

Poppy has no idea how she's fallen into this.

He got sorted into Slytherin (surprise, surprise) and she found her home in the house of badgers, in Hufflepuff.

Neither of them followed in the footsteps of their Gryffindor older sibling, but Poppy doesn't find that particularly surprising either. Lily Evans is bold and courageous and she belongs in the house of lions.

The only surprise was the fact Poppy didn't get sorted into Slytherin herself.

She had successfully talked her way out of the house of the cunning, but only because of her earnest approach to hard work.

Even then it had been a very close call indeed.

And while the idea of a muggleborn Slytherin may have appealed to the her before rebirth, in their current political climate, it's just not possible.

This is not Poppy Evans first go at life.

It is, however, her first as a witch. Her first as a little sister. And the goal is to ensure she's not the only magical Evans still living ten years from now.

She's studying, training in the Room of Requirement, she's working hard, a credit to her house.

That doesn't explain Regulus Black.

Regulus Black who has seemingly made it his mission to ensure she knows just how superior he is to her in every sense of the word.

Poppy spent the first three years of her Hogwarts career ignoring him, ignoring his cutting words (which admittedly had been rather sharp to have come from the mouth of an eleven-year-old) and she'd ignored his petty attempts at jinxing and later cursing her.

The counters were easy to find, the spells even easier to dodge. Then Fourth Year had happened and as her sister had been sitting her OWLS, Poppy had been sniping back at Regulus. He always confronted her when it was just the two of them, or when his Slytherin cronies could slither off. As the loner Hufflepuff, getting her alone wasn't difficult.

Getting her defenceless was impossible. Poppy has developed something of a reputation for being dangerous with her wand. All that time spent not socialising had been poured into spell-crafting, poured into making her wand-work as impressive as possible.

Maybe Regulus Black should have gone to the house of lions, because he was always brave enough to come challenge her, no matter how many dummies she blew up in DADA.

 

 

 

 

 

Fourth year transformed into Fifth Year and Fifth Year metamorphosed into Sixth Year and then… Then this mess happened.

 

 

 

 

 

Poppy's hand is curled into the hem of Regulus' shirt, drawing him closer, her other arm still trapped between the stonework of Hogwarts and the small of her back.

Regulus' own hand is tight in her hair, the other supporting him as he leans down against the wall. It's stupid and wrong and when he pulls away he doesn't lick his lips so much as wipe them in disgust on the hem of his sleeve.

But this isn't the first stupid kiss that's happened.

Poppy gets the feeling it won't be the last.

"If you find it so disgusting, why do you keep doing it?" Poppy hisses, watching as the pureblood's silver eyes narrow, lips pressing hard into one another and turning down in a frown.

"I don't know," he snarls back, equally as heated and Poppy glares right back at him.

She knows why she keeps doing it.

Regulus is an awful person, but he's got potential to change. It's that little fact that has her here.

Because there's something rebellious to be found in the action, in these fucked up interactions they share. It's not a relationship, more a dirty little secret. One they'd both deny if asked, one she doubts he thinks about once they leave each other's sights.

She does. Think about it that is. How can she not?

How can she not wonder at what part does Regulus begin questioning his role in the Death Eaters?

Is he even one yet? Poppy doesn't know, nor does she care.

She has her own goal, a goal to keep her sister alive and happy. She considered telling Dumbledore about the Horcruxes but put the idea off in the end.

Can't risk him going after them, drawing Voldemort's attention, only to have all the original pieces moved. She's already struggling on how she's gonna get rid of them. Fiendfyre isn't something she's capable of casting, not yet, and she's not exactly fluent in snake-speak to go get some Basilisk Venom.

For now, all she can do is collect the nasty little trinkets and figure something out as she goes. But they will be destroyed before Voldemort even thinks to go after Lily.

Oh, and Potter. Who's now finally dating Lily.

She doesn't smile at the thought, but that's only because Regulus is in front of her right now, and god forbid he think she's having kind thoughts of him.

"Let me figure out when you do, so I can stop it."

He sneers, a well-practiced thing and Poppy's only response is to lick her hand and the smear it across his cheek.

 

She walks away as he swears; she has shit to get done today, make-out session with the uppity pureblood or not.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Wiping the filth from his face, Regulus Black watches the sway of the arrogant little mudblood's skirts as she walks away, lips twitching despite himself.

Who does she think she is? Does she not realise how damn lucky she is to have even a scrap of his attention?

Her lips had tasted like tangerines.

Grimacing at the reminder, Regulus runs his tongue across his own mouth, savouring the taste he'd half-hearted tried to swipe away.

What the fuck is wrong with him? She's a mudblood, filth.

She shouldn't be excelling so much in class, shouldn't make her magic dance and twirl like she does. Shouldn't wear her red hair long and free to attract his attention, shouldn't have eyes such an intense shade of blue that stand out in her pale face.

He knows that Snape halfblood in the year above him still moons over the other Evans mudblood; Regulus had once heard him grumbling about how her green eyes were the most beautiful in existence.

Regulus had ignored it at the time, but he disagrees.

The younger Evans mudblood's blue eyes are better than green.

Which is fucking annoying.

Why couldn't she be a pureblood witch? Then every little thing that drive him insane would be a good quality. If it weren't for her blood, she'd have made a perfect betrothal. Smart, intuitive, beautiful.

But she's a filthy mudblood. Good for a quick fuck, but that'd be all.

If he could stomach laying with such a low-class woman.

The problem is, he can stomach the idea of it, has woken up from more than one dream in the middle of the night hard and aching, a half-hazed memory of spread legs, pale skin and sparkling blue.

Of his name moaned in the stupid accent that still carries in her words despite five full years of premium education here at Hogwarts.

Fucking hell, he hates Poppy Evans.

 

But he just can't seem to stay away.

 

 

 

 

 

Watching Evans is difficult.

None of the other Slytherins can know.

No, not just the Slytherins, no one can know.

It'll be the ruin of him if they find out his has a little tryst going on with the mudblood of Hufflepuff.

Not that she's the only mudblood of that waste-of-space house, but she's the one that stands out. The bludger yet to the chained back into the box, the snitch yet to be caught.

She doesn't belong at the top of their year group, but it's there she sits anyway. Whenever he goes she always seems to be there out of the corner of his eye, if not her physical presence then reminders.

The red of a Gryffindor tie masquerading as the crimson of her hair, the flash of a pureblood witch's pale skin at the hem of a sleeve a reminder that Evans' wrists are thinner than that, delicate even.

It's ridiculous and he can't stop thinking about her.

Has she curse him? Revenge for all those times he put her in her place in their first few years at Hogwarts? It's the only explanation.

It's driving him mad, Regulus hates it and he hates her.

That's all there is to it.

 

 

 

 

A day later, they're back in another little side corridor, one of Evans' legs hiked up around his waist as her hips grind against his.

 

 

 

 

He hates her.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

 

 

 

 

Seventh year, Regulus cuts her out.

She’s reasonably certain he’s in the Death Eaters now, has seen him clinging to his wrist at the breakfast table when he believes no one is looking.

Poppy still has her own shit to do (orchestrating a break-in of Gringotts being the tippy-top of her list) and no time to really worry about her... ex? No, that’s not right. They weren’t even dating, he can’t be her ex. They’d just been using each other to blow of their frustrations.

While no actual sex had happened, oral had. Both ways.

Sometimes she still wonders how Regulus had felt, between her thighs with mudblood mess coating his lips.

But no they’re both off doing their own thing and Poppy’s finally feeling confident enough to go after the Horcrux that will, one day, lead to Regulus’ death.

They might not have parted on the best of terms (they’d had a screaming match in a silenced corridor, threatened each other on what would happen should the other come within ten feet of them, and they hadn’t spoken since) and Poppy still can’t remember what they even… well, not ‘broke up’ over, but she can’t recall what drove them apart.

What they had… well it probably wasn’t healthy for either of them and she’s certainly got better things to focus on, but…

But it’d been enjoyable while it lasted, she guesses.

Maybe someday she’ll manage to connect with another person enough for a boyfriend, but right now she’s making do with her wand and transfiguration. Magic makes some things so much easier.

 

 

 

 

Searching through the records of Wools (which was due to be torn down soon and replaced with office block buildings) had been easy now that she’s seventeen and legally allowed to use her magic. Finding the location of the beach Lord Voldemort had visited as a child was easy.

Finding the entrance to the secret cave wasn’t as easy, but she still managed.

 

 

 

 

 

Poppy hadn’t been expecting to find another person there. She hadn’t expected to find Regulus, clearly in the middle of his attempt to steal the Horcrux.

Maybe the Horcrux is already gone, she doesn’t know.

All the redhead can do in that moment is stare because well- she’d been aware Regulus would die stealing the Horcrux, she’d been aware he died in 1979.

She just… she’d expected that to happen at the end of the year, not the start. If she’d put off this Horcrux hunt until summer as she almost had done… She’d have returned to Hogwarts for second semester and she’d never have seen him again.

It’s a daunting thought.

 

 

 

 

If she’s honest with herself, Poppy’s not completely sure how she manages to get Regulus and herself out of there.

Dolly, the Hogwarts Elf she’d recruited for her schemes years back, dutifully helps her no doubt. But the point is Poppy just can’t remember how it all happens.

Only that it does.

Regulus has ingested that horrible potion, the one Poppy hadn’t been able to find in all of her reading in the Room of Requirement. Probably a Voldemort concocted one; it’d certainly mean no one could bring an antidote with them, not unless they got a sample of it to test against, and given how the bowl had been charmed…

Poppy shakes her head, forcing herself to focus as she trudges up the drive to her home. She’s got Regulus’ arm thrown over one shoulder, dragging his half-conscious body along with her.

He’s so out of it he’s moving on instinct alone which is good, well for her anyway. It’s not like she can float him up her distinctly muggle neighbourhood.

It’s also a blessing that Lily moved out last month, that she went and moved in with James Potter. They’re getting married next month, Poppy recalls. She still has to find a dress for it, and talk to Dumbledore about getting let out of Hogwarts for a day to go to the ceremony.

Irritating.

 

 

 

 

“Poppy dear, is everything okay? You’re looking a little peaked.”

Blinking long and slow, Poppy relaxes back into her chair, trying to ignore the burning of the wand that’s strapped to her forearm, the wand that’s not her own.

She might have saved his life, but she’s not stupid enough to leave Regulus chilling upstairs in her room with his wand.

He’s still a Death Eater.

Having a change of heart towards Voldemort because of those Horcruxes doesn’t magically fix him of his pureblood superiority complex, doesn’t take away his potent hatred for muggles.

Like hell she’ll risk leaving him armed and dangerous in her parents’ house.

“I’ve got an assignment due when I get back, potion’s work, so I’ve got one on the boil upstairs.”

“Don’t disturb you, Petal, got it.”

Her father winks and Poppy’s hard pressed not to smile back, instead turning her attention back to the food on her plate.

She wonders if it’s strange for her parents, to have both elder daughters off living their own lives and be left with the youngest.

The one who’d always been a little too strange, a little too smart, a little too… odd.

She’d never quite fit in with the rest of them; Petunia had been average, a regular muggle of the times (if one were to do as she requested and ignored that period she’d spent as a hippy over her fifteenth summer) and Lily had been the bright extrovert.

Poppy, well, Poppy’s not.

She’s as introverted as they come, a happy little loner and she’s better for it. She’ll be able to keep her sister alive, through sheer hard work and determination.

No one will harm Lily Evans while she has a say in the matter.

“I better get back upstairs,” she murmurs, scraping the last of the spaghetti from her plate and smiling at her parents. “the world waits for no dessert, after all.”

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

Regulus Black doesn’t except to wake up, not really.

The vertigo, the weakness in his limbs and the blurring vision can be explained. What cannot be explained, however, is his environment.

It’s muggle, painstakingly muggle.

He blinks once, long and slow as he takes in his surroundings, but even as the lines and colours continue to spin, it’s still muggle.

Muggle.

Regulus jolts up, trying to get away from whatever filth he’s laid upon, only for his legs to tremble and crumple, sending him crashing to the floor.

The flooring doesn’t consist of highly polished floorboards, isn’t covered with a rug older than the living generations of the Black family altogether. The carpet’s cheap, Regulus doesn’t recognise the material in the slightest and he’s already itching at the thought.

Grunting, he pushes his hands beneath him, forcing shaking limbs to cooperate and get him standing, to get the rich layer of his leather shoes between him and this chinchy covering that’s trying to pass off as carpet. He manages, though a supporting hand ends up on the bed. Cotton covers, cheap, nowhere near the luxury he lives and breathes, though this room is warmer than his own home.

Merlin, his head is pounding. Where is he, what even happened?

A low cough has Regulus snapping to attention, hand reaching for a wand that’s not there. Why the fuck isn’t it there?!

He’s quickly side-tracked from that issue (only proving his mind isn’t all there) by the appearance of the last person he was expecting to see.

Then it all comes flooding back.

“Evans? No, you can’t be my afterlife,” Regulus moans around the fuzz in his mouth. It’s clinging to his teeth, overgrown fungus; he’s been in this cesspool of filth for far too long.

“Like you could be so lucky, Black.” To be sentenced to eternal damnation with only her for company? Lucky is not the word he would use.

She walks into the room, the door swinging shut behind her in the wake of her wand arching.

And suddenly the lack of wand reasserts itself with full forced fury. Every memory of every last one of their confrontations flares, a blistering reminder that he’s defenceless right now. All he has is-

“Kreacher!”

The panicked cry has Evans stopping in her tracks, bottom lip sucking in as she fails to hide her sudden confusion.

Despite himself, Regulus watches her mouth, recalls a time when it’d been sucking on other things, back when he’d been delusional enough to believe the war wouldn’t touch him and he could afford that one sinful little thing.

“Oh. If it’s a house elf, it won’t answer. I warded this place to the high heavens the second I turned seventeen. That includes house-elves; I’m not an idiot.”

She sets her wand down on the side; a quick calculation shows he won’t make it to the weapon in time to avoid her retaliation. That it’s free of her grasp does make him feel marginally better though. Only marginally so.

“What am I doing here.” He stressed that word, though it’s already apparent just how out of place he is. This is not his world; he doesn’t belong here, he’s above this.

“I saved your pasty pale ass. You’re welcome.” Saved his-

She was there. What the fuck was Poppy Evans doing anywhere near that place?!

She’s frowning, hip cocked to a side but not stupid enough to fold her arms. That’s what he not likes or respects, but acknowledges about Evans. She’s well aware of her status as a mudblood and she’s developed incredible paranoia as a defence. All the others, even older Evans, just floats through life and just reacts when their betters put them in their place.

This Evans though, she’s looking for it. And she always leads with a pre-emptive strike.

Were her blood not mud, perhaps that tie would be green instead of yellow.

“What were you doing there,” Regulus seethes out through gritted teeth, retracting his arm away from Evans’ bed, eyes scanning the room.

It’s the domain of a madman: notes pinned to every wall, dripping down from the ceiling in drives and drabs, floating and twirling with seamless magic. There’s everything in here, spell theory to ancient ruins to transfiguration. Even spell crafting, if he’s reading the left wall right. There’s no order at all, intricately woven detail that fade like a flash of lightning off the page ends; short of actual legilimency, it’s the closest representation of Evans’ mindscape he could ever imagine. A mess, basically.

“…I’m going to guess for the same reason you were almost making that place your grave. I’ve taken up thieving it seems. Congratulations, one of your little predictions from way-back-when came true.”

Fucking hell, he can’t even remember half the shit he ever said to her throughout the years; he stopped keeping track after the first month of the first year. There were more important things to focus on.

Evans’ powers the conversation on with all the grace and force of a charging hippogriff.

“I saved your life in there, so for my life debt is that you’re not gonna speak to anyone else about my presence there, or what I was doing.”

The Magic closes in around him before Regulus can even think to deny her. It’s a heavy pressing weight, settled stiffly upon his shoulders. One he won’t get away with shaking free.

Not unless he wants his head to roll right off with it.

How dare this uppity little mudblood trap him. How dare she take a sacred tradition such as a Life Debt and use it to encage him like this.

Rage curls deep in his stomach, each deep breath filling his lungs with scorching fury.

Evans’ hair tumbles down over one shoulder, falling in careless waves to rest across her slender curves.

It’s a painful reminder of just how tired he is.

Here in this land of scum filled squalor, he finds himself disarmed and with a mind that’s still swirling, bubbles in a never emptying sink. Just constant twisting and draining, until there’s nothing but clear, colourless waters left. See-through, transparent.

Regulus hates this feeling.

He hates that Evans is the only sense of the familiar he has here. Hates how he clings to her presence like a drowning man to a shark.

The sharp look to those blues makes the descriptive that much more graphic, that much more appropriate.

“Get some rest. We might not get along, but until you can stand without shaking I guess I’m taking responsibility for your sorry ass.”

He wants to say something witty, something about how she wishes he’d taken care of her after one of their sessions had left long pale legs shaking.

His mouth is dry and tongue uncooperative.

The words won’t pass his lips, exhaustion heavy upon his tongue.

 

 

Regulus takes the bed; there’s no power upon this earth that’d see him sleeping on the floor of a muggle hut.

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

 

 

What the hell is she supposed to do about the pureblood in her bed?

Poppy manages to half-run a hand through her hair before freezing.

Holy fuck, she’s picked up the bloody Potter hair ruffle. God damn it, she’s not even the one that’s going to marry him.

Forcibly dragging the hand back down her face, Poppy plucks up her wand once again, ignoring the screaming, burning pain that is Regulus’ own blistering the skin of her right wrist. She has no idea what kind of spells he’s put on the damn thing, but she wants to know so she can damn well copy it.

Observing the richly coloured wood again, Poppy draws her sleeve back down over it, approaching her desk with a begrudging determination.

The locket Horcrux is now safely out of Voldemort’s reach; the house elf had been able to hide it away from the snake-faced bastard in the books and there’s no way her presence could have influenced things enough that such a statement would become untrue now.

Bellatrix is a confirmed member of the Death Eaters and that she’d listened to Potter rant one too many times over ‘the white-haired, masked bastard’, she can assume Malfoy is among the ranks too. That’s two more Horcruxes to take into account, along with the one she knows for certain is resting in Hogwarts itself.

She knows how to sneak in and out of the grounds now, will be able to do so as an adult once she’s got this Animagus thing down (as long as the form is subtle, that is) so it doesn’t matter if she leaves her collected Horcruxes in the Room of Requirement. Some place designed only to admit one of her blood with a password of random words; it’s the safest thing she can conceive at this moment in time.

Despite all these protections, anonymity remains her greatest defence. Voldemort does not know she hunts his Horcruxes, does not know his greatest secret is known.

The only loose thread in this, is Regulus.

The Life Debt should take care of it, but Poppy hasn’t made it this far by taking risks like ‘should’.

 

 

 

 

The hours pass far too quickly.

Poppy knows she’s not massively magically powerful. She’s not instinctively gifted with the revered power of their kind.

But she is a hard worker. She is determined, and she is imaginative.

Sometimes, that’s enough to overcome the most gifted of people.

Faced with the impossibility of Gringotts though, she’s still drawing up a blank and there’s no one to turn to for help.

Lily and Potter have enough on their plate and while she loves her sister, Poppy isn’t stupid.

Lily would tell Dumbledore, and then Dumbledore would want to know what else she knows. He’d drain her dry of foreknowledge and ruin it all because he won’t go all in.

She’s got issues with Dumbledore; he’s losing the war because he’s not fighting. Not really. She understands that some of the opposing side are acting against their will, but the majority are not. War does not occur without casualties and the Headmaster’s ideals are costing more than they should.

Or maybe that’s just the bitter cynic talking.

Scoffing, Poppy grapples with the long strands of her hair, twisting it back into a quick ponytail that’s undoubtedly squiffed. Glass clinks as she downs two potions in quick succession, the dawning sunlight streaming in from between the cracks in the curtains and catching at the empty vials she deposits on her desk.

“So that’s how you do it then.”

The sleep-rough voice is distinctively male, unquestionably in her room and Poppy swings around with wand levelled towards the origin.

Her head’s still swimming, brain recalibrating to the substances she’s just necked; as such, it takes her a moment longer than it should to remember the intruder isn’t much of an intruder at all. That she had in fact brought this one in.

It’s only Regulus, Regulus who doesn’t have a wand and doesn’t know how to fight like a muggle. Right.

“Do what,” Poppy parrots, exhaustion felling any other emotions. Wideye with Invigoration Draught chaser may eliminate the need for sleep, but it’s far from a restful solution. Even if perpetual tiredness were a desired state of mind, the nasty side-effects that come into play when the combination is ingested continuously over a few days would stop any sensible wizard from abandoning sleep altogether.

“There’s too many hours in the day to lose and I’ve got shit to get done.” She can average forty-eight to seventy-two hours of wakefulness now before she crashes, and even she’s capable of acknowledging when she’s pushed too far.

As the pounding behind her head finally subsides, Poppy lowers her wand but refuses to sheath it, instead focusing on her guest.

Loose curls mused into a halo around his head, there’s something almost angelic about the freshly awakened Regulus.

It’s not a sight she’s ever been treated to before; their meetings occurred in untraversed corridors, classrooms not visited in centuries.

There’d been no cotton sheets, only stone walls to her back, wooden edges cutting into the underside of her thighs.

No half-hooded eyes, no lips dried with sleep. Just rampant paranoia and a potent sense of escapism.

It feels like an invasion, seeing Regulus like this; he seems more vulnerable now than when she’d carted his unresponsive, half-there self away from that damn cave.

There’s a delicacy to him here, one he’s never let her see before and probably never would have if given the choice.

In contrast, she sits with dark crescents beneath her eyes, skin no doubt paler than normal and posture nowhere near the proud exemplar she usually showcases.

“Those are addictive substances.”

He says it as if she isn’t aware, as if it’s a common fact that she as an outsider has no business knowing.

Poppy hates him all the more for it.

“Of course, to keep up with us you have to lower yourselves to such things.”

Poppy’s imagining the slight twinge of disappointment, she knows she is. Because there’s nothing other than validation in Regulus’ words, proof that her kind, that muggleborns can’t handle the wizarding world without help. His world-wide view just seems so incredibly limited to her.

“Yes, imagine using all the resources available to you in order to get ahead of the people out to hurt and kill you simply because you were born. How could I? Oh, I’m such a bad little mudblood, I should have just rolled over and accepted my place, right? Let the first proper pureblood slit my throat the second I tilted my chin up, right?”

The words snap free from her mouth before she can even think about stopping them, but it’s not a point Poppy would ever try to hide.

The satire tastes heavy in her mouth, thick like out-dated yogurt on her tongue.

Then again, the truth is a difficult thing to swallow, even if the bitter taste is masked with sarcasm.

“Would you like to take a shot?” Poppy snipes, tilting her head back and looking down at Regulus through the light dusting of black lashes that frame her lower lids.

It goes unspoken between them that she has his wand, that because of her, he wouldn’t be able to take the chance she mockingly offers.

The lour of his face is proof enough.

Point made, Poppy turns away from the displaced pureblood, tired eyes returning to her notes.

Maybe she should put Gringotts on the back-burner and figure out what to do with the lout currently occupying her bed.

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

She’s insufferable.

From the explicitly tired hunch of her shoulders to the long, pale column of her neck, he honestly cannot stand the sight of Poppy Evans right now.

It’s not the pleasant exhaustion she’d once looked down upon him with, back when her thighs had been warming his ears and he’d proven why no mudblood would ever be as good as a pureblood, back when he’d ruined her for them.

Fallout aside, Regulus knows she’s not turned to another to try and fill the place he had once occupied in her life.

He’s watched her as surely as she as watched him; quick snippet glances stolen from the corner of eyes, flashes of images caught in the reflective windows and the polished armours of Hogwarts.

There’s something sacrilegiously Slytherin about the secret he’s just uncovered.

He highly doubts Evans senior knows just what her little sister is doing, that she’s getting by on potions in order to stay at the top of her game.

From the familiar way in which she’d effortlessly downed the two foul tasting potions, she’s been on them for a while too. Evans is efficient, almost to the point that he can consider it alarming.

Hard work indeed.

The bedsheets smell of her, of Evans and synthetic muggle product that is perhaps supposed to act as a freshener charm.

It’s a surprise he’s not broken out into hives yet.

Pulling the sleeves of his shirt as far down his arms as possible, Regulus sits himself up, eyes still locked onto Evans’ stooping form.

Even as she’d walked away from him on shaking legs, she’d always done so proudly, head held unashamedly high.

It’s making him itch to see anything less of her now and Regulus is horrified to realise he’s actually come to expect things of Evans. That he holds her, a mudblood, to standards. Standards at least half his fellow Slytherins fail to achieve. Something that is to be corrected as soon as possible.

He doesn’t appreciate the shattering Poppy Evans’ image, the one that he’s built up in his mind over the years.

She was to remain a flat character, nothing more than a quick distraction, a dirty little secret.

She wasn’t supposed to have different faces. Even if she did, his world wasn’t supposed to flip until he was exposed to a different side of her.

Still, a flat sheet of parchment can have two sides. His life doesn’t need twisting anymore, he doesn’t want to risk another dimension appearing.

Two is already two too much.

“I need to get you out of my life.”

The quiet admission comes from Evans’ mouth, Regulus watches the lips form each successive word.

On that they can both agree.

 “Hand over my wand and my presence will be swiftly removed from your life.”

Even as he says it, he knows such a thing won’t happen.

He’s in Evans’ bedroom, presumably Evans’ childhood home, which means somewhere in the vicinity are the muggle parents that spawned Evans. Muggles.

Regulus sneers.

She’s holding his wand hostage because of that, because of those two she called parents but whom are no better than cattle. Perhaps even worse; cattle at least have their uses.

What use does he have for a muggle?

“You, armed in my muggle home? I don’t think so.”

Her eyes snap to his left forearm and Regulus bristles with the implications.

She knows he’s a Death Eater, somehow, she knows.

Inexplicable shame creeps over the back of his neck and the shirt he’s in suddenly feels all too tight.

By Death Eater standards, by the standards of the most extreme blood-supremacist, she’s a waste of oxygen, someone better off dead. The inking on his arm visual proof of those ideals. Of the Dark Lord’s ideals.

A Dark Lord who has torn his soul apart; that is not something Regulus could ever stand by. Not that there had been much of that in his short experience.

He’d always been on his knees, the first time in his life he’d ever been in such a position.

Even with Evans; she’d always been hiked up on a desk, hips angled up as he’d leaned down into her.

The Death Eaters are far from what he expected and he no longer wants any part of it.

However, his distaste for the Dark Lord has done nothing to change his opinions upon mudbloods. Still-

“I’m not petty enough to curse the filth you term parents,” Regulus drawls, patting down the lazy curls of his hair, smoothing out the tangles as best he can without a wand and a mirror.

He wouldn’t curse Evans’ family, not in this instance. Not when she’s the reason he still draws breath. She’d already made her demands in regard to the Life Debt; it’s sensible of her not to take any chances when it comes to his barely-there good-will.

“I’ll apparate us out tonight, somewhere quiet, and then you can get on with your life.”

“Tonight?!” Regulus hisses, affront.

“I’ve got homework to get on with.”

“So, have I!”

Essays he hadn’t touched, under the impression he wouldn’t survive to the end of winter break.

Then again, it’s not as if he can return to Hogwarts; Hogwarts means exposing he’s alive, means expectations, such as showing up for the next Death Eater meeting. Of presenting himself to the Dark Lord and eventually having his mind read.

Regulus might have been willing to die for his self-appointed mission, but he isn’t suicidal, especially now that the Horcrux is secure with Kreacher.

He needs to withdraw from society, fake his own death, needs to take carefully calculated steps in order to survive now.

Oblivious to his internal dilemma, Evans smiles, the gesture brittle.

“Well my world doesn’t revolve around you, Black.”

 

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

 

 

 

Marching on through the awkwardness that Regulus Black's presence dictates is a trial of determination and iron will.

Poppy endures.

She grumbles through an announcement that the bathroom is just down the hall, but that it's only available while her parents are out visiting Lily's new home.

The look of sheer loathing Regulus had graced her with would lead a person to think she were a Gryffindor mudblood and not a Hufflepuff one; she's happy enough as his penultimate enemy.

Snorting at the thought, Poppy flips to the next page of her reading material, eyes scanning the page for any key terminology that could possibly help with her essay.

She's being petty, refusing to apparate Regulus away until her parents are home safe from Lily's, but he got himself into this mess. She was just the one to bail him out this time, so he's going to have to deal with it for today. And… she's almost missed this. Almost.

"How in Merlin's name did you get a hold of this!"

The snarl has Poppy peering up from yellowed pages to stare over at Regulus.

Regulus who's sat with a look of utter outrage on his face and a weathered old tome held in his hands, the tenderness of his grasp at odds with his highly offended posture.

"A hold of-"

"Wreano Warncavel's theories on multi-layered charms!"

He brandishes it at her as if presenting stolen goods, as if she had illegally obtained it; like she should feel guilty or something.

Poppy blinks, cocking her head to a side while flicking the book she'd been reading closed.

Evidentially Regulus Black is incapable of being anything other than the most conspicuous thing in the vicinity.

"How did you get this, we've been looking for a Warncavel book for three generations and you, a mudblood, just so happens to have one in your possession?" He sneers again, though the expression drops right off his face as he peers down at the book in his grasp. Reverently, he runs the tips of his fingers along the spine, peeling the front cover back to stare at the pages within, eyes glimmering with unconcealed awe.

Regulus Black is geeking out. Regulus Black is geeking out over a book right in front of her.

Lips quirking up at the corners, Poppy drops her cheek into the closed fist of her hand, elbow balanced upon the back of her chair as she takes the sight in. He'd always been the untouchable pureblood, always with his head held high and a demeanour that made him appear inviolable.

This isn't pureblood Black; what she's seeing right now is Regulus. Just Regulus.

It's appealing.

"I got it from the lost and found at Hogwarts," Poppy finally explains, tapping the tip of her dry quill to the edge of her parchment.

"The lost and found. This belongs to another student." His fingers twitch, curling around the book and Poppy just knows he's trying not to start reading right away, to start flicking through each page and begin devouring all the knowledge the tome contains. It'd been an interesting read; he's got a good eye for books has Regulus Black.

"With the amount of shit in the lost and found, I wouldn't be surprised if that book was lost years ago."

"And you just helped yourself to it."

"Well no one else was using it." She smiles, a cocky little thing that Regulus can probably only see out of the corner of his eyes, but that quick glimpse is enough to inspire the tensing of his shoulders, the scowl that crosses his face only strengthening the upturn of her lips. "So, you know, finders-keepers an' all. You as a Slytherin should appreciate that."

She needs another book.

Sliding out of her chair, Poppy stalks over to her bookshelf, wary of the pureblood sat primly upon her bed, his entire body tense. It's as if he's trying to ensure as little of his person touches his current surroundings as possible. As if mudblood is a contagious disease or something.

Rolling her eyes, Poppy crouches to inspect the titles, hands tucked between her knees for balance as she leans forwards to get a better look.

There's a sharp intake of breath behind her as her eyes find the book she'd been looking for, one hand swiftly wiggling it out from between it's neighbours.

As it passes through the shelves the magic takes effect, popping it up to its original size. It's so much easier to store books when they're all charmed into uniform, pocketable little sized to squeeze onto the shelf.

Tucking the book beneath her arm, Poppy swings around, only for a hand to clamp down on her wrist.

She hisses, twisting at the grasp but it's stronger than she'd thought (it's not the arm with her wand holster, that should have been the arm he went for) and the sudden pull unbalances her.

Poppy lands on the bed, on Regulus with a winded grunt, even as she does her best to dig her elbow into his midriff.

He gasps but wrestles with her, grabbing for her other arm but this time Poppy's expecting it.

She catches his fingers, twisting them back even as Regulus rolls the both of them over, until he has the advantage of both height and weight. He's still got his shoes on and they're on her bed and that's pissing her off.

"What the fu-"

Lips smash against her own, violent and needy and robbing the breath from her words.

One of Poppy's arms is still caught in his, her own hand tight around Regulus' fingers and twisting them back at an angle that can't be comfortable.

"You talk too much," Regulus growls against her mouth, teeth darting forwards to dig into her lower lip, pulling at the captured flesh and Poppy groans.

Chasing after him, forcing him to release her lip so she can better slam their mouths back together, chapped flesh against chapped flesh. Back arching, chests pressed flushed, one leg already working its way up to hook around his waist as if they at this only a day ago, as if it's not been four months since they were last within three feet of each other.

"What happened to never getting within a foot of each other?"

"You came to me."

"I went there for other reasons and you know it," Poppy snaps, finally releasing Regulus' fingers so she can catch a hold of his hair instead.

She's never touched it before; it'd always been perfectly coiffed, styled just so and to muse it was to ruin it, to give a hint of just what had occurred and neither of them were that stupid.

Right now though, there's no one to hide from.

Forcibly jerking his head to a side, she wraps her lips around his jawline, tongue running flat over the sharp edge and sucking hard.

He hisses, pressing her still bound hand to the mattress, clenching hard as his hips work into her own.

This is familiar, they'd spent more than one evening rutting away in desolate corridors, her back to the wall and Regulus between her legs, rocking away, racing to orgasm. Because hell knows as soon as one of them was satisfied, there was no waiting around for the other to catch up.

This doesn't have the same pace though, the same rush.

It's missing.

Now there's just charge, charge as Regulus' fingers dig deep into her thigh, drawing her hips up to meet the cocksure grind of his own. There's charge and it's sparking and this is exactly why they'd walked away from each other.

Because there's no control, no restraint between them; it'd been fraying before and at some-point during their separation, it'd snapped.

"Are we actually going to get to the main event this time?"

Poppy'd be fine with the usual, the relief that comes with it, but there feels like something more to the air this time.

There's Regulus' pupils, blow wide and darkening his eyes.

There's the blood that's pounding at the back of her head, forcing her focus on him and him alone.

There's his breath, mingling with hers, his saliva on her lips.

"You're a mudblood."

"I can make do with my wand and some transfigurations if you're not willing," Poppy declares, ignoring the way her breath hitches as Regulus' hips roll one more time, harder and steadier than before.

"Such a bad little mudblood."

"You like it."

 

He's clearly tired of listening to her, for she gets silenced with a kiss.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

He's exactly where he didn't want to be; all sprawled out across the painfully muggle sheets, in this painfully muggle room, the protective layers of his clothing stripped away. He's covered in sweat, those fine baby hairs usually hidden with careful styling are now plastered to his forehead and it's all Evans' fault.

The bedsheets are rougher than his own, but it's not exactly like he could have had his way with Evans in his own room.

It's not he'd have wanted her to sully his room with her presence. He wouldn't.

He wasn't supposed to get caught up in her, he wasn't supposed to survive the potion (his throat is still scorching, there's still twitches to his fingers and he's struggling to focus past all those horrible, twisted little thoughts that've been stirred up) and he certainly wasn't supposed to sleep with Evans.

It's all her fault.

Uppity little mudblood, bending over by that bookshelf like that, pushing her rear out, the full curve accented by the light spilling in from the window.

A fucking tease.

And it's worked too.

Regulus can't bring himself to care now that his hand rests atop her hip, now that his fingers have dug into that taunt flesh and left her gasping beneath him.

"You're heavy," Evans grumbles out, laid beneath him and there's sharp stings striped across his shoulders, light red welts left there by Evans' shapely nails.

He won't be surprised if there's heel-shaped bruises on his back, given just how tightly she'd clung to him.

"And you're feral," Regulus grunts, never the less edging off her to lay on his side, still palming the swell of her hip, thumb brushing over the sharp jut of her hipbone.

Evans' teeth snap together just a hair's breadth from his collarbone, eye glinting and a cheeky smile on her face.

Like this, she's almost pleasant company.

It's the blood that's a problem. Blood that'd flushed her cheeks pink, blood that'd beaded up on her lip when he'd bit too hard.

Blood that, for one horrifying moment, Regulus almost dismisses.

But his mind comes careening back to him before he can do anything, say anything that he'd regret forever.

His lips stay shut, that one quick, traitorous thought is never voiced aloud.

He's got his own shit to deal with. Like destroying that Horcrux. The horcrux…

Was that why Evans was there?

Eyeing the Hufflepuff shrewdly, Regulus remains perfectly still as pale fingers brush along his temples, smoothing out the baby hairs and that settles it.

This absolutely cannot happen again.

This isn't using each other, this is getting dangerously close to something more, something close to co-dependency and that is completely unacceptable.

"That's the first time you've ever got me off."

And from the sharp blue of her eyes, Evans' noticed it too. He'd like to say that had been an error of judgement, but recalling the sheer surprise on her face, the way her hips had bucked so deliciously, how fingers had clenched in those muggle sheets as her lips formed quick gasping breaths; no, that's not something he's going to regret doing. Just this once.

It's not as if it'll ever happen again.

"Well, time to get rid of you," Evans mutters, drawing her hand back from his face.

He knows the way her fingers flutter against his cheekbone isn't intentional, that it's not longing.

"What happened to waiting for the muggles?" He snipes, smoothly rising from the bed and snatching up his pants as he goes. The carpet is rough against his toes, but nowhere near as coarse as the tough fabric that consisted of Evans' blue skirt, the one he'd peeled from her hips and thrown to the floor. How she can wear that, he had no idea.

"I don't really need to wait around for them," she drawls, piling her hair up and making no move to cover herself. There's bruises marring her collarbones now, pepper across her skin like nundu print. Nundu is perhaps the most appropriate term he can offer her; she's certainly poisonous enough, would destroy his life if he breathed her in.

"I need you gone."

He can see it on her face; that same fear of becoming something substantial.

He's better than she could ever hope for, but she doesn't want him. Not like that.

And it's not as if they could ever work either.

He's a Black, purer blood runs in the veins of no other.

And Evans, she's as common as they come.

 

He needs to focus on hiding, on faking his death, and there's only one family member he can turn to for that.

 

 

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

 

 

 

Her room seems so much bigger now that there is just one sole inhabitant.

She'd apparated herself and Regulus out of her room, to the little park the Evans sisters had played in as children, back before they'd moved into this home, moved into this town.

There, she'd thrown Regulus his wand and apparated away, unwilling to stick around.

Friends with benefits or not (though friends could hardly be an applicable term for what they are…were) she had technically been holding the pureblood against his will.

While she highly doubts her fellow student will go running to the Aurors given the inking on his arm, that's not to say he wouldn't curse her the second his wand was in hand. Hence her hasty exit.

That she'd been able to leave so swiftly, to avoid the awkwardness of a goodbye, that has nothing to do with it.

Not at all.

There's a difference now though, now that they've laid side by side, territorial marks of the other littering their skin like victoriously planted flags, regions conquered through hard won battles… it's the first tender moment Poppy can recall since she left childhood behind. Light-hearted, carefree moments in which she had just existed, concerned herself with nothing but the instant, nothing but what her five senses could experience.

The golden sun kissing the edge of lazy half curls, fabric detergent mixing with the scent of sweat, sex and man. The taste of his skin on her lips, audible palpitations of a heartbeat besides her own. The defined edge of his cheekbone against her fingers, flesh so smooth and silken.

It's like her ribs are contracting, flowers blooming in her chest and there are thorns in her bloodstream, petals choking up her airways.

Regulus Black has planted something in her breast, something she needs to burn out at the root.

Because cutting it back, hoping it'd remain tamed and pliable hasn't worked in the slightest.

It's mountain laurel, so pretty and alluring, aesthetically it's gorgeous.

But it's poisonous, too large a dose and it'll kill her outright.

Every small dose is a gentle build up, until she slowly begins losing control of every component of her body, of any command she has of her life.

She cannot allow it to take root inside her; she's got shit to do, she's got more important things on her mind than a could be.

It'll never work, not in current circumstances.

Regulus' is a pretentious, pureblood asshole, capacity for change or not.

It doesn't matter that their personalities jell, that their interactions are the moments she feels most awake, most connected with this world.

The political climate as it is, the society they live in, it's just not fertile ground for that particular relationship to thrive.

They'd be cut down before the first flourishing bloom.

Acknowledging that hurts, almost as much as the single taste she's had, knowing she'll never be able to have that again.

She doesn't know what Regulus is doing now, but she can assume.

If he's smart (he's smart, they'd never get along otherwise) he'll be faking his death, going into hiding, perhaps even leaving the country. Maybe he'll find some simpering pureblood wife, a foreigner who'll spend her days warming his bed and playing the picture-perfect wife. It doesn't hurt, this mental image.

It just leaves her feeling hollow, as if the weed within her chest has been successfully carved out by the very thought. She's empty, but right now, that's what she needs to be.

The prophecy hasn't been spoken yet (she's been keeping an eye on the job seekers column and there's been nothing for the divination post so far), Lily is not yet a target. But it's only a matter of time.

Which means Poppy needs to prepare.

Perhaps she's approaching her little Gringotts problem in too Slytherin a manner.

What possible harm could the Hufflepuff route cause?

 

 

 

 

Striding up the ornamental steps of Gringotts, Poppy pulls her dark cloak tighter around herself, tucking in the flaming strands of her hair.

As a young, innocent child, she'd also adored the brilliantly bright colouring she'd received, but right now, it is a literal red flag. A bullseye.

The only other people with hair as red as her own were the Weasleys, and they aren't exactly a family Voldemort is willing to welcome to his ranks with open arms.

None meet her gaze as she steps into goblin territory; few dare to do such a thing right now. Meeting the wrong person's eyes in war-time is to risk beginning a duel, a fight, a battle. For all that war is currently wading through the land, there are many that're just trying to get one with their lives and ignore it.

Poppy would like to be one such person, but circumstances as they are don't allow such a thing. She's a target simply for being alive; given that Lily's out there actively fighting, well the youngest Evans sister never really had a chance, did she?

Smile bitter, Poppy makes her way to the closest goblin, lowering her hood as she does so. There's protecting one's self outside, and then there's giving insult to the goblins, something which Poppy wouldn't dare to do.

She is, after all, asking a favour of them.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

He shouldn't have done that.

He'd been teetering on the edge of a cliff and instead of backing away he'd leapt into the fucking water.

There's sharp rocks beneath the surface, he's sure of it. Every daze moment is spent waiting for the first cut to his skin, still in shock as the cold waves encased him, closed up over his head.

How fucking stupid could he get; sleeping with Evans.

Evans.

A mudblood. Fucking hell.

Pressing the heels of his hands into his face, Regulus drags his fingers down over his cheeks, peering slowly at his surroundings.

After Evans had dropped him off (how embarrassing, being carted around like a damn squib or something) the first thing he'd done was apparate to the Three Broomsticks and use the floo.

There'd been no one there to recognise him given the current term-time; the Christmas Holidays mean every other Hogwarts student was at home, enjoying the festivities in this dark time.

All but Regulus, he who'd had two of his most life-shattering moments ever. He'd nearly died, and then he'd slept with Evans.

And he'd liked it. Sleeping with Evans, that is. Not the nearly dying part.

Grimacing, the Slytherin flicks the lingering traces of soot from his robes with a well-practiced motion, storing his wand back in its usual holster.

He can still smell the muggle-freshener on his skin. A scent stripping charm soon takes care of that and just in time, for the door to the receiving room opens with an explosive bang.

"I thought I heard company."

Cassiopeia Black halts her strides a mere three feet from him, a frown twisting her lips as she peers down her nose at his form.

Regulus wonders what she sees when she looks upon him, wonders if there's some kind of brilliantly vivid sign that he has betrayed the family values. It's like a scum on his skin that he'll never be able to wash off.

Well, he was the one stupid enough to drop into that polluted ocean.

"It is polite, nephew, to announce yourself prior to arrival."

"I need to fake my own death."

Cassiopeia is far too well-bred a woman to look so blatantly startled, but the one raised eyebrow she offers him is more than enough.

Despite the six decades of life she's powered through, his aunt's hair remains the same pitched black as his own, her face carrying few wrinkles. Out of all of the elder Blacks, she is the one that has aged the best. The perks of being alone, she'd once told Regulus.

Given the mess he's fallen into with Evans, he can believe it.

"Running off with a lover, are we?" Cassiopeia drily articulates, wand in hand as she brushes his collar aside with the tip of applewood.

Regulus swallows once and hard.

Of fucking course she's going to notice the bitemarks, the hickeys that Evans has so brazenly left. He's been waiting for the impact on the rocks but he's got the bruised aftermath already.

"I stole something from the Dark Lord." It tumbles out of his mouth, those words that've bene sitting ever so heavy on his shoulders, ever since he'd actually committed the act. Waking up in Evans' presence, it'd been a momentary distraction.

The way Cassiopeia's face washes free of all emotion has Regulus' nerves setting on edge.

"Why."

"He made a Horcrux." He hurt Kreacher. Both are equally as damning in Regulus book. Kreacher, his one companion and only friend, the only one he could truly trust with all that he is. Evans might know his emotions, might know a pinch of his desires, but Kreacher knows it all. Or, almost it all.

He's going to be so disappointed in 'Master Regulus' for sleeping with the filth.

"I haven't faked a death in the past decade," Cassiopeia murmurs, twisting on her heels and making for the hallway. "Follow me."

Adjusting his displaced collar until it once again lays flat, Regulus follows after his aunt, nervously eyeing the mass amount of unfamiliar objects that're housed within these walls.

She leads him into a room just off the hallway, filled with books and folders and scripts. There's even the infamous Big Black Book of Blackmail; a family heirloom passed down throughout the generations. It doesn't follow a direct line, nor does gender matter. It just gets passed to the next person who's believed to be capable of wielding it for the good of the Black Family.

His aunt sits herself down in the grand armchair, summoning a quill to twirl through her fingers.

"So, two new identities-"

"One," Regulus corrects, meeting the sceptical gaze of his elder, ignoring the gentle lift of her eyebrow.

"Not just a secret lover then, a scorned secret lover. I would say you're being particularly stupid, but given how you've finally decided to ignore that dear niece of mine and stop kneeling like a commoner, that wouldn't be particularly true now, would it?" Cassiopeia offers him a bland smile, snatching up a sheet of unmarked parchment and dipping the quill tip into an inkwell.

"You… don't approve of the Dark Lord, Aunt?"

"Of course not! Any true pureblood would feel no need to hide behind a false name. Even Grindelwald bore his name proudly, halfblood or not."

Aunt Cassiopeia makes a good point.

What family was the Dark Lord even from? No matter how much the Ministry would believe otherwise, the Dark Lord cannot have just appeared from some abyss, cannot have crawled out from beneath the gateway to hell; he has to have been born to a family, to a mother and a father. Any pureblood family worth their salt would be discreetly bragging about his prowess, never mind his claimed relations to the Slytherin line.

So why has Regulus heard nothing from the sacred twenty-eight?

"Now stay still, Nephew. I need to complete some spells."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Sweats nervously*  
> Forgot I had posted this on here in all honesty.


	6. Chapter 6

 

 

 

 

The Sword of Gryffindor. The fucking Sword of Gryffindor.

That's the only price the goblins would accept for going back on their promise to another witch/wizard.

Poppy's no fool; she'd gotten the goblins to agree to a magically binding contract to ensure they'd follow through with their end of the bargain, but first she's got to get that damn sword. That alone proves the little buggers don't think she can manage it.

Bleeding hell. It's abundantly apparent she won't be getting any sleep tonight. Some things are better done as soon as possible. God, her stomach is rolling with nerves; she's already thrown up twice this morning on the train back, but it's not exactly every day you plan to steal a priceless artefact out from under the nose of the greatest living wizard of the current era.

She's always been like that though, Poppy's always been one to throw up when the nerves hit. Lily could just power through them with no problem and Petunia didn't exactly get rattled. She's more the type to scream it all out. Which means Poppy's the nervous wreck of the family.

Given what she knows of the future though, that's hardly a surprise.

Regardless, she'd rather get sick on occasion than suffer a nosebleed, without fail, every time she went flying. There's a very good reason her older sister wasn't on the Quidditch team.

Slouching further down into her seat, Poppy's eyes scan the Slytherin table, forcing herself not to focus on any individual one. Just a quick glance.

But it's enough to assert Regulus isn't there.

She'd been expecting it, he'd be stupid to try and return. He's out of her life now, there'll be no reason for them to ever meet up again and that's… strange to consider.

Swallowing the chunk of meat in her mouth is harder than it should be, even though there's no reason whatsoever for it to get stuck in her throat. Regulus had just been a distraction, an indulgence. He'd always rubbed his 'pureblood superiority' in her face throughout the years.

Poppy can be honest with herself; it's felt good to leave him breathless and gasping, to prove no matter how inferior he believes her to be, she could still draw that effect out of him. Could get him completely lost in her presence.

It'd been a two-way street though, and now that she's finally found her way off of that road… it's odd. To not have the distraction there anymore. She doesn't have time to be pondering over this, not really.

She has things to get on with.

That starts with the Sorting Hat.

 

 

 

 

She waits until morning. Moving at night is far too risky; that's when everyone expects a heist to take place. Instead, Poppy puts her plan into place as the sunlight begins to pour across the horizon.

The Room of Requirement creates her a passageway into the Headmaster's Office, leaving a small opening upon the wall that the shelves rest against, the shelves that contain the Sorting Hat.

A quick spell as the little door transparent and after ensuring that Dumbledore is indeed out of the room, Poppy pushes open the little threshold and reaches for the hat.

She freezes in place when she spots Fawkes.

Beady black eyes stare back at her, surrounded by a magnificent plumage of red and gold feathers. The perfect bird to represent Gryffindor, Poppy concludes.

They stare at one another for a few seconds, the immortal bird's gaze heavy before it lets out a warbling tune. It's a short song, one that echoes through the room and it doesn't make her quake, doesn't strike fear into her heart.

But it doesn't inspire any kind of bravery either.

 

 

 

 

 

Settling back into the room of requirement, Poppy lays back against the chair that materialises beneath her, fingers still curled gently around the brim of the Sorting Hat.

She'll be missing her first lesson, charms, but she's already studied ahead on the topic; she has no need to really attend. The little slap on the wrist she'll get for skipping will be well worth it.

Slowly lifting the headwear up, Poppy lets it drop atop her fiery locks, chewing nervously upon her bottom lip. It's already well past chapped, a little more gnawing isn't going to hurt it now.

"Now here's a mind I remember well. Your barriers are good, girl, but not good enough."

That's fine, all Poppy needs is for them to alert her to someone looking into her mind; she's quick enough that she could flee from anyone looking into her head. And when it comes to the one person she can't run from, well it's not exactly like she's going to be meeting up with Voldemort anytime soon, is she?

"I'll not be giving you the sword."

"What?! Why not!"

"Because it is meant for a Gryffindor," the hat grumbles, shuffling about upon her head, an illusion of making itself more comfortable atop her skull when all she wishes to do is rip it right off.

"Does that really matter? I'm being brave here, can't that make me an honorary Gryffindor?!"

There's a sharp stinging in her palms and Poppy hastily unclenches her hands, wincing at the red little crescents her nails have dug into the meaty pads of her flesh. Blood beads up from a few of them; perhaps she should start keeping her nails trimmed shorter.

"It's not about what qualities you show, it's about what you value," the Hat mutters, leaning its weight back until Poppy is forced to look up, to gaze into the mirror she'd not even noticed forming. The hat is scowling at her, leathery lips twisting the worn material into a deep frown. "Were you asking for Slytherin's dagger, I wouldn't have been able to sit atop your head before I coughed it up. But Gryffindor? Bravery and chivalry are the two traits you value least of all."

"It's those traits that get you killed," Poppy bites out, mind whirling with all that she knows of the future, all that'd get eaten up.

"You could tell-"

"I'm not telling Dumbledore!"

She can't.

She can't because Dumbledore sees the big picture. He'd been willing to sacrifice Harry like a lamb for slaughter, to throw him to the wolves to ensure the safety of the sheep. What's to say he won't do the same with Lily? Won't wait until she pops out a saviour and then he'd just let it all run its course, get rid of Voldemort and thus allow the time to leisurely track his Horcruxes down?

"Now Miss Evans, Albus would not-"

"You said it's the traits we value. Just because he was a Gryffindor, doesn't mean he'd help me. Doesn't mean he wouldn't condemn my sister and nephew to save more lives. He weighs it by lives he could save. To me, Lily is worth the entire wizarding world put together. She's my sister." The last part is stressed as greatly as she can manage.

There's a moment of still silence as they stare at each other's reflection, both too stubborn to concede to the other. Poppy swallows, looking away first.

"I don't suppose that Slytherin dagger was a real off-"

"Take me back to the office, Miss Evans. Even if I had the dagger, it is not goblin-made. Perhaps you should focus on removing Voldemort's physical body from the chessboard before worrying about a permanent solution."

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

"A snack, Master Regulus?"

Kreacher's huge eyes stare up at him, wide and adoring as he presents the plate of beautifully crafted sandwiches.

Slouching further into his chair, Regulus' eyes drift over to the window, glancing out across the snow-covered countryside that the glass presents. He's in France now, secreted away by his Aunt Cassiopeia as she works her magic.

Already the tapestry has declared him dead and, bless his wicked little soul, Kreacher has agreed to follow after him, faking his own death in the process. Regulus would well and truly be lost without his dear friend.

But that doesn't change the fact he is practically in exile here, stuck with the Dark Lord's Horcrux stored away in a warded box until he can figure out how in the name of Hogwarts he's supposed to destroy it.

Thinking of the castle, that magical place he had gotten to call school, has a surge of bitter-wistfulness crashing over him.

He should be there right now. He should be breakfasting by the Slytherin table, under the watchful eyes of the great walrus Slughorn, listening to the sniped little whispers of his fellow housemates as they discuss the war. He should be doing his best to not garner Dumbledore's attention, should be looking down upon the mudblood populace with a disdained expression upon his face.

He should be catching sight of pomegranate red and forcing himself to turn aside, to not give the game away.

Only the game is up and, most infuriatingly, it feels as if he has lost.

"Master Regulus?"

The concerned croak brings Regulus back to himself, his eyes focusing upon Kreacher who seems to be wavering on if he should keep offering the sandwiches or set them aside in hopes of getting him something better.

"My apologies, Kreacher. I am missing Hogwarts and the company there." Damn. He hadn't meant for that last bit to slip out.

It is well known amongst his family that Regulus is very much an introvert, something his father had despaired over. Apparently, that made it so much harder to find him a good pureblood wife, especially when Regulus would not bother to give anyone not of interest to him the time of day.

"Master Regulus' company?" Kreacher slyly enquires, lips twisting up in interest. Though they look nothing alike, the expression itself reminds him of Evans, of that content kneazle with the cream look.

He's so tired of keeping this a secret. What's the point now? It's all over anyway, they'll never cross paths again.

"Evans saved my life, Kreacher."

"Evans?" Kreacher parrots slowly, a frown on his wrinkled features. "A half-blood?"

He's not speaking of her presence there, or what she was doing there. But he is declaring she had been the one to save his life. This is within the wording of what she demanded of him. Evans needs to learn to articulate her debts with greater care.

"A mudblood."

"A mudblood!" Kreacher despairs, bug eyes wider than usual as he drops the tray of sandwiches. A quick flick of long fingers has it disappearing but the damage is already done.

Despite himself, Regulus can feel a bitter smile twisting at his mouth, recalling Evans who'd never once stopped acting like the uppity-little mudblood she was, but had been so much taller for it.

"I slept with her."

"Master Regulus!" Kreacher wails, dropping to sit upon the floor.

No doubt his whole vision of Regulus has been shattered in these moments and Regulus just laughs, a tinge of hysteria expressed with the vocalisation. Seclusion is supposed to turn a person mad, but to happen this fast? Mayhap his Black blood is catching up with his after all. It certainly got Bella and Andy.

"She's like a Quidditch pile-up, Kreacher. I just couldn't look away from her, couldn't stop from crashing into that madness and I'm all the worse off for it."

Kreacher whimpers, still staring at him and Regulus laughs again.

 

Evans has fucking ruined him.

That much is clear.

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

 

 

 

Poppy wakes with Regulus’ name on her lips.

 

She lays there for a moment, staring blankly up at the canvas top of her bed as she retrieves her pillow from beneath her head.   
Then, face buried into the mustard yellow material, she screams.

 

 

 

 

 

  
“You look lovely, Poppy.”

Lily would be so much more believable if she weren’t staring directly at the near perfectly disguised bags beneath blue eyes.   
Poppy sighs, adjusting the neckline of the pale violet dress, trying not to scowl too much. She doesn’t look as tired as she feels, damn it. She’d skipped the potions last night, determined to get a good night’s rest.

Instead, she’d been subjected to long fingers, strong hands, breathless curses whispered in a cultured voice. She’d woken feeling as if she hadn’t slept in the least and it’d left her worse off for it.

“Lovely’s good,” Poppy manages, blinking and tearing her eyes away from her exhausted reflection, “means I won’t steal the limelight from you.”

Gently elbowing her sister in the side, Poppy grins at her, forcibly ignoring the fact it should be three sisters here, not two. But Petunia had refused to come to Lily’s ‘unnatural’ wedding, insisting it wasn’t for people like her. She’d barely tolerated their presence at her own wedding.

Though that might be because Poppy’d taken it upon herself to do what their father was too kind to do; threaten Vernon to treat her big sister like the queen she is. Petunia had scolded her for it, but Poppy hadn’t missed the pleased little smile her sister had tried to tuck into the corner of her mouth.

“You look radiant, Lily.” And truly she did.

Pure white charmeuse flows across every womanly curve Lily possesses, falling smoother than silk. It’d be a dangerous choice of fabric (after all, charmeuse is known for highlighting all flaws) for anyone but Lily. Because her big sister has very few flaws, and each one is already disguised by her sheer goodness.

Poppy’s always been the strange one, she’s accepted that.

Lily, in comparison, is the most gifted of the three sisters, there’s no point in trying to deny it. It doesn’t matter that Poppy’s teachers whisper how she’s smarter; what good are smarts when she can’t put them into practice? When she struggles so plainly to achieve what Lily does so effortlessly. People put up with Poppy; they love Lily.

“How is Hogwarts without me?” Lily teases, her eyes bright and lively, the very essence of the approaching spring. She’s so lively, so full of life. Even when faced with a war, a war that threatens to eradicate the race she has been born to, Lily Evans faces the world with a bright smile and an inquisitive mind. She’s a glowing beacon, a well of hope.

It’s strange, but Poppy has long believed spring belongs to Lily. The season of rebirth, of growth and flowering. It’s a beautiful time, one that brings about new discoveries.

In comparison, Poppy is winter. It’s all a constant battle, fighting against harsh colds and blinding snow. Even the few comforting warmths she finds eventually fades.

She banishes that thought, sets fire once again to the roots that are once again expanding in her chest, limbs that creep along her bronchi, entwining with them. It’s knotweed; if there’s so much as a speck remaining, it regrows, each invasive stretch claiming more and more of her until it’s difficult to find Poppy within the mess.

“Pop-a-lee?”

Scowling at the painfully childish nickname, Poppy flicks her wand towards Lily, watching that mane of hair weave itself up in a flawless up-do. If there’s one thing Poppy’s become good at when it comes to appearance charms, it’s hair-dos.

“It’s fine. And no,” Poppy snaps, cutting off Lily’s next question, destroying the usual banter before it can follow down the same path as always, “I haven’t made any friends. Thanks for asking, but I’m quite happy without any of them.”

The unsaid ‘they’re all stupid’ hangs heavy between them.

Lily has long known her irritation with her year-mates, has tried to encourage her to make friends despite their clear difference in mindsets. They’re all idiots because none of them have even thought to prepare for what awaits them outside of Hogwarts.

Even Regulus is somewhat guilty of this; she’d seen him laughing with the other Slytherins, so absorbed in their little house games that they weren’t even looking beyond the walls of the old stone castle. And now he’s not there anymore.

The roots burn again, licks of flames, pulmonary fumes choking her. All in her mind; it’s not real.

As it turns out, Poppy is not particularly adaptable. As it turns out, she dislikes changes to her world.

Ripping away the only person her age that she’d been capable of thoughtless interaction with is jarring.

Regulus might have been an asshole (still is an asshole) but he’d been her asshole to play with. They’d toyed with one another, both in the physical and mental sense. Now that’s gone, taking the stress relief such interactions had brought with it.

Plant matter is burning, but not a wisp of smoke escapes her lips.

“Are you ready? It’s not too late, you can run off. I’ll handle Potter.”

Lily giggles, hiding the noise behind her hand. She wears her nerves well, they bring out a rosiness to her cheeks that Poppy’s never witnessed before.

“You should call him James. He’ll be your brother-in-law now.” Urgh, what a nightmare.

It’s not that Poppy dislikes Potter per se. But she doesn’t like him either. It’s well acknowledged that he’d been a bully during his younger years, and that’s not something Poppy is quick to forget. He’s grown up, that’s a given, but that doesn’t change the years of anxiety he and his wild-tag group of Gryffindors had given other students. Herself included. She’d lost three pages of notes to a Marauders’ prank. All four boys had lost every last pair of trousers they owned come the dawn of the next day. On a completely unrelated note, Poppy had practiced her fire-spells upon the material that’d mysteriously appeared in her possession that same day.

Still, Lily is looking at her with those imploring green eyes and Poppy crumbles like wet tissue paper.

“Fine. I’ll start considering it.”

“Thank you.”

 

 

 

 

“Aww, I always knew you liked me, Lil’ Evans.”

Doing her damn best to keep the scowl off of her face, Poppy claps politely as Potter sweeps Lily into the most romantic kiss she’s seen outside of the television screen, determinedly not turning a glare on the male at her side. 

Sirius Black the Third is a taller, broader that his younger brother, with a roguish charm to his every last feature. As Potter’s best-man, she’s been lumped with his presence beside her in the ceremony given that she’s the maid of honour.

"Yep, the sixth toe you hide from your families rampant inbreeding really gets me going,” Poppy surmises, lips curving up in a smirk as Sirius’ head snaps towards her in surprise. 

The moment of stunned silence between them is broken by his barked laughter, one that sounds a little more forced that it should. 

“Such a cutting tongue. You sure that’s not a blue tie you should be wearing?” It was supposed to be green, would have been green if not for the current political climate. 

“Positive. Hard work triumphs all.”

“Spoken like a true ‘Puff,” Sirius snarks, all good-natured grin as he watches James lead Lily back down the isle to the doors. “We better get out there or those two newly-weds will leave us behind.”

Poppy hums in agreement, doing her best to not pay Sirius (she can’t refer to him by his surname, that dances far too close to other thoughts, thoughts that burn) too much attention. It only encourages him.

“’S tradition for the best-man to dance with the maid of honour, you know? Sure I can’t tempt you with a bit of pureblood goodness?”

“Not in the slightest.” Your brother’s already beaten you to that.

Proving to have no talent with legilimency in the slightest, Sirius shows no signs of reacting to her internal monologue.

“Too cold, Lil’ Evans, too cold.”

 

 

 

 

  
That night, bridesmaid dress a crumpled mess on the dorm floor, Poppy crawls back into her own bed, head spinning.

Her eyes flicker to the trunk at the bottom of her bed, recalls that she’s got another set of potions to see her through the next week.

There’s too much to do and so little time.

Lily and Potter are married now, probably off doing those newly-wed things that make her cringe a little to think about (not the act itself, but the participants and that’s more than enough right now) and she’s just so exhausted.   
She’s still got to figure out a way to get the hat to cough up the sword, figure out how to get the diary out from Malfoy. And that’s not even getting started on the ring with that death-sentence curse on it. She’s got the diadem (and curse Voldemort to the seven hells and beyond, the amount of shit she could have got done wearing that thing if he hadn’t tainted it) and Regulus has the locket. He’s smart, he’ll figure out a way to dispose it.

But there’s still so much to do and time keeps marching on.

Not for the first time, Poppy toys with the idea of leaving Hogwarts. She doesn’t need the education, that can be picked up at any time and there’s already areas where she’s beyond what the curriculum can offer. That’s what self-study does, after all.

No, the only reason she remains is the resources. The Room of Requirement, the house-elves, the quick access to the hat. It’s all important, key things that she cannot yet start going without. She needs to start training her magic, needs to become an Animagus so she can sneak back into the school.

Find a way around the curse on the ring, figure out a way to sneak the diary out from Malfoy without him knowing (almost as impossible as retrieving the cup, only she’s got no goblin insiders willing to barter a deal. Maybe Dobby? If he’s around that is) all the while making sure Lily doesn’t do anything stupid.

To top that all off, she must do it all in a way that doesn’t make Voldemort suspicious. Because if he gets suspicious, he’ll move the Horcruxes and then that’ll remove Poppy’s advantage.

Not to mention he’ll stop at nothing to see her dead.

She’s prepared for that eventuality if it comes about; Dolly holds her will, to be delivered to Lily upon her death. She’s prepared, but she still feels like a newbie climber before Everest. She’s-

 

She’s not alone.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

The mudblood notices him in an instant, wand snapping up right towards him and Kreacher sneers as the invisibility of his kind is forcibly stripped from him.

Not a useless mudblood then, that much is clear.

He recalls the past few hours, the offer to Master Regulus (dear Master Regulus who has been led astray, who has been tainted by the filth before him) to kill the mudblood.

But Master Regulus had denied him. Had said a world without the wench would be significantly less interesting. He had called her the bludger yet to be chained.

Tainted, Master Regulus has been tainted.

And while Kreacher cannot deal with the filth as he so desires (Master Regulus said no, poor Master Regulus who drunk the poison, who’s mind was addled for the witch of dirty blood to take advantage of) he can warn her off.

“What do you want.” It’s not a question, but even if it were, Kreacher does not answer to mudbloods.

"The mudblood presumes to command Kreacher. Dares to-”

“Kreacher- you’re Regulus’ elf,” the female concludes, wand still held level. A mudblood, but not a stupid one. “Has he recovered, from the poison?”

The mudblood enquires after his dear master. She will be displeased to know he still lives.

“Master Regulus grows stronger, he-”

“Good. Now piss off. Return to Black, destroy that damn locket. Fiendfyre should do it, or Basilisk venom if you can get your hands on it.”

What.

How does the mudblood know what will destroy the locket? Master Regulus’ presumed last words, destroy the locket. Oh, how Kreacher has tried, tried and tried again. But he has failed, failed again and again. As has his master. What the mudblood speaks of though, so dangerous and damaging… Perhaps it shall work.

But to follow through on the mudblood’s demands; everything in Kreacher rallies against it.

“Now get lost. If you stay any longer, you’ll probably end up exposing Black.” The filth is right.

Kreacher allows his appearance to fade away, keeping a watchful eye upon the female.

As he disappears from sight, she seems to crumple forwards, wand hand going to her head and pushing back the wild red there. Of course, the mudblood grows weaker while Master Regulus grows stronger; as is the way of pure blood. The female fails, falters beneath her stress while good Master Regulus faces it head on.

All is right with the world.

 

 

 

 

  
The locket burns that night, vile black smoke pouring from it’s quivering form and Kreacher smiles.

 


	8. Chapter 8

 

 

 

The hospital wing. Why is she here? The smell is so familiar, so distinct. Why the scent of antiseptic prevails in a world where it is unneeded, Poppy cannot even begin to guess. The material beneath her is soft to the touch, as if every fabric in the wizarding world. At least those that aren’t meant to be rough for magic-related reasons.

“Miss Evans? Good you’re awake. You were found passed out on the third floor.” Damn it. How the hell had she passed out?

Poppy’s mind scrambles, trying to cast back to what she’d been doing on the third floor. She’d been at the library, she recalls, searching for a book that’d help with her transfigurations assignment. Had she found the book? Yeah, she had. She can recall the weight of the tome in her arms, can remember walking down the corridor. Remember leaning against the ancient stone walls when a sweeping dizziness had hit her. It hadn’t been the first one in the last two months or so, and she’d resolutely settled against the architecture, ready to wait it out once again.

Then, then nothing.

Scrubbing the heel of her palms into her eyes, Poppy sighs, toes wiggling and there’s not a part of her body that isn’t fully functioning. She’s good to go.

The removal of her hands from her eyes however, proves her fellow Poppy isn’t about to let her go anywhere.

Madam Pomfrey, the woman who shares her first name, scowls down at her with an impressive level of critique, judging her.

Evidentially, Poppy has been found wanting.

“I’m good to go?” Poppy tries, even though she can see with that oh so very serious look that such a thing isn’t the case. It isn’t the case at all.

“Not in the slightest, Miss Evans. You are so very far from ‘good to go’ that it is laughable.” Well shit.

“I’ve got things I nee-”

“What you need, Miss Evans, is to sit down and listen to me. You should have come to me straight away when the dizzy spells first started.”

Double shit, how does she know it’s happened more than once? Poppy’s no medical professional, her knowledge on anything more than basic healing (and fast, emergency first-aid) is woefully lacking. Pomfrey can probably conclude it’s happened more than once, and if magic can’t let her do that, then certainly the defeated look upon Poppy’s face can.

“And then I would ask why you have triple the recommended amount of Wideye and Invigoration Draught running through your system, but I’m reasonably certain I already know the answer to that. And that’s not all.” Triple shit… wait, triple the recommended amount? That’s, that’s probably not good.

By Pomfrey’s face, it’s unquestionably not good.

Sucking in her bottom lip, Poppy’s brain whirls. Not all? She doesn’t have some kind of Horcrux residue on her? How long would such a thing last, if so? How would she get rid of it if that were the case?

But no, that can’t be it, if that were the case, Pomfrey’d have already called the Aurors, the Aurors or Dumbledore. That kind of magic, it’s dark, tainted. She wants to liken it to an ink splatter on blank canvas, but Poppy can hardly be as pure as a blank canvas now, can she? Not with some of the spells she’s used to try destroying the Diadem. Oh, she knows Fiendfyre would work, but she doesn’t want to risk the Room of Requirement just yet and Basilisk venom is more expensive than she can afford.

“Miss Evans!”

Snapping to attention, Poppy forcibly does not quiver, instead lowering the wand she has instinctively pointed at the nurse.

There’s a moment of tense silence between them and Poppy can only wonder what the other thinks of her. Caught with too much potion in her system (she had no idea the residue remained in the body so long) and with a hair-line trigger temper, pulling her wand on the first thing that startles her… it’s not looking too good.

“I need to be paranoid,” Poppy hastily points out, not quite storing her wand but instead bringing it down to rest beside her thigh, “political climate as it is, and given that I’m a muggleborn-”

“And pregnant.”

“-and pre-” Poppy chokes.

What.

She heard that wrong, didn’t she? She can’t have just heard those two words, no, because-

“I had my period last week!”

“Your body is completely out of sync thanks to those potions you’ve been religiously chugging, Miss Evans! You’re lucky your eyeballs haven’t popped out.” That’s, that’s not a serious worry, is it?

Not entirely sure if Pomfrey is joking, Poppy instead turns her gaze down upon herself, staring at her stomach in wide eyed horror. There can’t be another life in there, can there?

“It was just one time,” the whimper passes through her lips with little thought and Pomfrey’s lips thin in the corner of Poppy’s vision. “I thought it took more goes than this.”

 God, the only family Poppy can recall popping out children effortlessly is the Weasleys. She’d even done a miniature study on it in her third year; conclusion being that witches and wizards had a much harder time conceiving than muggles.

“Perhaps it’s a small blessing in disguise you’ve remained on those potions, Miss Evans; your own magic has been fighting the foetus; were that not the case it’d never have gotten past the second week.”

She’s gonna be sick.

It must have shown on her face because there’s a bucket before Poppy a moment later and then she’s throwing up, upchucking the contents of her stomach again and again but that’s not going to bring the baby in there up. Her midriff quivers, shaking and spasming, unsure if it has finished with her or not. Poppy remains curled over the bucket, grimacing at the vomit that invades her nostrils but hell, she can’t find the energy to depose of it. She’s even let go of her wand, has left it lying beside her leg on the mattress and she can’t remember the last time she’d done that, not had her wand to hand she means.

“Miss Evans, if this is a problem, there are options-”

“I’m well aware, Madam Pomfrey. But I can handle it.”

The low humph, the disbelieving stare and the pity- fuck, Poppy doesn’t need the pity. She doesn’t want it either.

“I can handle it,” Poppy repeats, one hand clenching into the bedsheets as Pomfrey removes the bucket from her lap, the other going for her wand again. The elder wood (‘ _been a while since I sold an elder wand, bit of a reputation for being mischancy and destined for highly unusual personals_ ’) thrums beneath her fingertips, cool and giving no indication of the dragon heartstring that lies beneath.

She needs to reconsider her priorities, needs to get a plan together but there’s one very obvious thing she has to do right now.

“I need to see the Headmaster.” And doesn’t it sting to admit that.

 

 

 

 

 

Her Hufflepuff year-mates stare at her when she packs her belongings with a flick of her wand but Poppy’s past the point of caring. It’s not that they’ve never gotten along, she’s just never had a need (or a desire) to interact with them and after the first month, they’d stopped trying. They’d just politely ignored her from then on, only offering her a place with them for the big events, such as the first Hogsmeade visit. She’d turned them down of course, too interested in exploring the village on her own, disinclined to follow them from shop to shop like a lost little puppy dog. No, she’d kept to herself.

And speaking of keeping to herself, Poppy had pointed out Pomfrey was bound by oath to not share any information in regard to a patient, which included Poppy’s status of being… being pregnant.

Her hands curl into the thick material of her jumper, the castle cold even in this mid-March weather.

Dumbledore had stared intently at her throughout the entirety of her talk with him, but not once had she felt that fleeting brush against mind. He’d tried to talk her out of it, but Poppy had been unmoving in her insistence.

She was leaving Hogwarts to protect her family in these rough and troubled times. What she didn’t say was such a thing wasn’t the only reason she was going. She can always apply to sit her NEWTs at a later date. She can’t postpone a... a baby.

A laugh escapes from between her lips before she can stop it and Poppy comes to a halt by the gates of Hogwarts.

She cannot stay here.

There’s too many supporters of Voldemort waiting in the wings, ready to join his ranks when they graduate. If they haven’t already. She’s no doubt marked as a target because of the trouble Lily and Potter have been causing the Dark Bastard, adding a baby to that?

No, it’s better she go into a form selective of hiding. She’ll still keep in contact with the family, with her parents and Lily and Petunia…

What are her sisters going to think of her? They’re both married, married to men who treat them both right (even if Poppy herself is not particularly fond of either man) and yet it’s her, it’s the youngest of them that’s pregnant. The one who’s single, who hasn’t even started to get her life together and it’s all just piling up and piling up-

“Miss Red?”

 Drawing in a sharp breath at the unexpected voice, Poppy lowers her wand, the tip having been pointed right at the tender skin resting between wide eyes.

“Dolly?”

“Miss Red! The elves says youse is leaving!”

Blinking slowly, Poppy casts a telling glance to her trunk, charmed weightless and pulling along behind her.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m leaving. I’ve, well,” Poppy trails off, dropping her trunk in order to scrape her hair up into a magically bound pony.

“Then Dolly be’s coming with youse! Miss Red be’s needing Dolly’s help, yes she’s is.”

“Okay.” She’s not about to turn down an offer of help, not about to ask Dolly if she’s sure. A house elf would be incredibly helpful (Kreacher had proven that in a book once, aiding Regulus beyond what any wizard would do) and most importantly, house elves are loyal. “You’ll be my elf?”

“Dolly’ll be’s Miss Red’s elf!”

“Good. That’s good. Thank you, Dolly.”

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

The charred husk that once held a thousand years history is sat on Regulus’ new desk. Until recently, it’d also held the slithered soul of a mad-man. Or rather, part of it.

Prodding the remains with his wand, Regulus leans back in his chair, satisfied.

The Dark Lord is once again made mortal, made mortal by Regulus’ own wand. Kreacher had suggested Fiendfyre, and so they had apparated out to a small, uninhabited island in the very north of the Scottish waters. The flames had finally ceased burning four days after they were first given life, swallowing much of the island whole. The sea had claimed the rest, quenching the fuel-less fire, the tendrils of flames disappearing into the hungry depths.

That’s it.

He’s done his part in this blasted war, risked his neck (and nearly been killed because of it) and now he sits and he waits. It will not be safe for him to resurface in society until the Dark Lord is dead, but the Horcrux has been gone for two months now.

Surely someone will have gotten a hit in on the Dark Lord by now?

No, no they wouldn’t have, of course not.

The only one who dares to duel the Dark Lord is Albus Dumbledore, the very same man who had defeated Grindelwald but failed utterly at killing the man. Even now he remains locked up in his former stronghold.

Problem is, that’s not going to work with the Dark Lord. He stronger than Grindelwald, that much is clear. Either that, or Dumbledore has grown weaker in his old age.

They are evenly matched and should Dumbledore falter for a second, then there shall be no one left to destroy the Dark Lord, mortal as he is now.

What good is mortality when one cannot land the killing blow? The Curse of Achilles, a man made invincible against all things, barring one weakness. The only man capable of striking through that armour refuses to use a killing blow.

It’s the height of vexation, it makes Regulus’ teeth grind.

If Dumbledore fails, Regulus’ll never be able to return to England, to his identity.

He is a Black, a proud one. He refuses to live in a world where he has to hide that. Such a thing means, however, that he cannot continue on with the Dark Lord out there living.

The Dark Lord may push the agenda of blood purity (Why doesn’t he use his name? Aunt Cassiopeia made such a valid point, why doesn’t he use his name?) and Regulus still believes that mudbloods belong beneath him.

The thought of Evans beneath him, cheeks flushed, spine arching, is one he hastily pushes away.

It would appear that he’s going to have to come up with a back-up plan.

The Dark Lord believes himself immortal and thus, his arrogance with such a thing will know no bounds.

Still, the man is paranoid, clever and suspicious. If Regulus is going to kill him, he’s going to need to do this properly. The true Slytherin way. With cunning and resourcefulness in spades. It’ll take time, but it is not as if he hasn’t got anything but that on his hands already.

“Kreacher! I need you to go and fetch some books for me!”

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

 

 

 

 

 

“Oh Petal.”

Her lower lip isn’t wobbling. It isn’t.

Poppy stands in the kitchen that has been her home for more than a decade now, hands forcibly stuffed into her pockets so she can suppress the urge to wrap them around her waist. She doesn’t need a faux form of comfort like that. This isn’t something to be ashamed of. It’s a little slip up, something that’ll have consequences for the rest of her life but one that Poppy’s determined to embrace.

It’s not knotweed growing in her now; she’s nurturing what she’s determined to see as the most beautiful little bud ever burgeoned. It’s something she’s going to treasure, fuck what the rest of her world thinks.

But it’s still hurting, still cutting deep to see her parents look at her like that. Sure, the expression was instantly wiped from their faces, but she hadn’t missed the slight disappointment, the slight pity.

Their youngest daughter, freshly eighteen, still single and suddenly very much pregnant out of wedlock. That’s a big problem right now in the seventies. Well, nearly eighties, one more year to go.

Regardless, it’s not something well looked upon.

And while Poppy doesn’t care how others perceive her (when has she ever? She’d have curled up and wished to die after the first ‘mudblood’ comment if that were the case)… this is different. These are her parents she’s telling.

“And you’re keeping it?”

Are her mother’s first words and Poppy nods sharply, hands fisting, nails digging into the flesh of her palm. She’s ignoring the guilt pooling in her stomach, senseless guilt at that. She hasn’t done anything wrong by her standards, other than being unprepared that is. Even then, it’s not as if she hasn’t been steadily building a nest-egg of cash throughout her years.

“Well I wish the bastard who put you in this position were still around so I could wring his neck, but there’s nought we can do about that. We’ll help you wherever we can, Petal.” This is it, this is why she’s such a daddy’s girl.

Because while her mother is evidentially trying, her lips are pressed into a tight thin line and her resemblance to Petunia is clear right now. It’s easy to see where her eldest sister gained her mindset from. Still, her mother loves her; she’s holding her tongue.

No, it’s her father that’s said the words she’s needed to hear, to the point it’s coaxing hot tears to her eyes.

“Thanks,” Poppy croaks, voice irritatingly hoarse as she steps into her the hug her father offers, clutching the coarse material of his work-shirt. “I’m pretty sure I can take care of it all, Dad, there’s ways I can deal with this and still come out on top.” Of that, Poppy is unquestionably sure.

Just like waking up in the body of a baby, just like sitting down to a tea-party and realising her sisters are called Petunia and Lily Evans, like meeting the grease-stain that is Severus Snape for the first time and truly realising what she’s in for, Poppy will take it all in her stride. She’s got no other options than to do so.

First thing’s first, she has to start getting some of her affairs in order. It’s clear that dealing with the Horcruxes before Voldemort’s attack on Lily and Potter just isn’t going to happen now, not when she’s got this on her plate.

So, she’s going to have to get rid of him, temporarily. Removing Voldemort from the equation would make society safer as a whole and leave him incapable of defending his Horcruxes.

And all she’s got to do is get in a kill shot at the most feared wizard in history. Easy.

Not.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Stuffing an iced finger into her mouth, Poppy sucks at the sweetness that persists on the edge of her finger, forcibly not looking at Lily from the corner of her eye.

To say her sister is suspicious would be a damn understatement. Lily knows she’s left Hogwarts and now she’s looking for a house in a magical community? Yeah, it’s no wonder her elder sister keeps shooting her dubious looks whenever she believes Poppy won’t notice.

But she’s noticed.

“Where are you getting the money from for a house anyway?”

“I set up a smuggling ring at school,” Poppy deadpans, pulling the lapels of her jacket tighter. It’s not too far from the truth.

The Room of Requirement had been a treasure trove much like a medieval Cave of Wonders, full of bountiful carp students had needed to hide and then forgotten about, not had the ability to access again. Gold, silver, all sorts of gems (really, these purebloods are crazy, bringing those kind of things to school) but also, artefacts that’d long fallen out of fashion and were now coveted as a statement of wealth or intellect.

All of which the goblins had been happy to buy from her, selling on for a greater price with cliental who’d trust them far more than they would a dirty little mudblood.

Though it bites to know she’s losing money, Poppy’s managed to amass enough to afford a house and (as long as she lives frugally) not have to worry about working for a year or two. She’ll get by.

It’s difficult enough to imagine how things’d have gone had she not taken such pre-emptive measures.

“Keep your secrets,” Lily mumbles, the amused smile on her face warmer than the spring sunshine, “I’ll get them out of you eventually.” That is painfully true.

Already Poppy has started to gain weight around the stomach area and just this morning she’d had to turn down Lily’s offer of medium-rare steak for dinner. No undercooked meat and her preferred medium-rare is just too risky now. Which sucks because it’s her favourite meal.

Of course, Lily is well aware of such a thing too, hence the increasingly suspicious looks.

Hell, she’d rather have not brought Lily house-hunting with her at all, but the elder redhead had begged; Potter and the rest of his boys are on a man’s weekend away, whatever that means. Thus, sibling bonding time.

“Okay, that’s it! Tell me what the hell’s going on, Pop! I know you weren’t exactly thrilled with Hogwarts, but I figured you’d stick it out because you’re certainly not struggling with the coursework; you had straight O’s!”

There’s a hand wrapped around her wrist, though it’s far from the harsh grasp that Regulus had once held it with. That’d been the start of all this, hadn’t it?

Poppy laughs, shaking her head, one hand coming up to scrub at the side of her face but there’s no tears. Hell, she’s pretty sure she used every last one up when she broke the news to her parents two weeks ago.

“It’s funny. Both you and Petunia have your lives together, houses, men that treat you like queens. But I’m the one having a baby first.”

The fine, mist like drizzle that’d been surrounding them becomes thicker, fat raindrops smacking against the flustered skin of her cheeks and Poppy feels the water clump her eyelashes to one another.

It doesn’t wash anything away though, doesn’t make her feel clean or refreshed. The rain cannot wash away the evidence of her life because she’s not concrete, she’s the earth, soaking it all up instead and she’ll use it to become stronger, to keep growing.

Sighing, Poppy reaches into her bag, drawing forth and umbrella far longer than her bag should have been capable of storing and props it up over the both of them.

Lily is still staring at her, lips parted, as if she’s tried to speak but the breath, the words have just been caught on her teeth, incapable of escaping.

“Surprise,” Poppy drawls, trying to smother the panic that’s starting to flare in her chest.

It’s always been there in her chest, at first an underlying ‘what if Petunia and Lily realise I’m some stranger that’s taken over the body of their sister?’, only that’s never really been the case. Poppy Evans has always been her, Lily and Petunia have only ever known her and they love her, strange quirks and all. That doesn’t matter.

But with the acceptance from that train of logic came the inescapable ‘what if I ever let them down’, the ‘what if I disappoint them’ lingering persistently, like a bad case of common cold.

“You’re having a baby?” Lily asks quietly, her grip suddenly that much stronger; it’ll leave imprints in her forearm if she keeps it up much longer.

“Yeah, thi…” Poppy trails off, uncertain.

She can’t call it a thing, not anymore. Not now that she’s acknowledged it, now that she knows it’s human and someday it’ll breath and it’ll laugh and it’ll call her Mama.

“I- yeah. There’s a baby growing in me.”

It’s not a fig tree, strangling her insides, it’s a precious little bundle that she’s got to look after. It’s hers and no one will ever be able to take that away.

“Oh my- Poppy! You didn’t even say you were…”

This time it’s Lily that halts her words, looking sheepish and Poppy knows exactly what she’d been able to say. She’d never said she was in a relationship.

“There’s no relationship, Lil. Hell, I don’t even know if I can love someone the way Potter’s blessed enough to have you love him.” Holding up her hand to starve off whatever denial Lily’s about to sprout, the younger Evans sister fiddles nervously with the handle of her umbrella, sucking in the flesh of her lower lip and all the while wishing dearly that she’d not finished off those iced fingers so fast. “Look, what we had, Lily, was sorta like poetry. It wasn’t good, but it wasn’t bad either, it just made me feel something and for me, that was enough.”

Those interactions with Regulus, it’d made her feel alive, made her feel like she wasn’t just marching on into a battle to save her sister’s life. In those moments, they’d just been Poppy and Regulus; there’d been no outside world and she’d just been able to forget it. To just focus on carefully styled (and not so carefully styled) hair, thawing silver eyes and greedy pale hands.

“Maybe not the epic romance you’ve got with Potter but, for a time, it was ours.”

“You have to get a cottage in Godric’s Hollow. Then we can help you out whenever you need it! Oh, I love babies, Poppy and if you live nearby when James and I have kids.”

Laughing and ignoring just how wobbly the sound is, Poppy links her arm through Lily’s, trying to push down the grateful grin.

“Like I’d trust Potter with my spawn. I don’t think I’d just him with a cat, never mind a baby.”

Because of course Lily wouldn’t judge her.

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

“You wicked little child, why are you looking through that book?”

Peering blearily up at Aunt Cassiopeia, Regulus snatches up a bookmark to hold his place in the text.

Admittedly it is quite gruesome but to kill a Dark Lord he’s going to have to pull out all the stops. Yet, he’s not found one thing yet that he could pull off without months of practice.

Regulus is no fool, he’s well aware he cannot just learn one trump card spell and expect it to take Dark Lord down. No, while Regulus may have been one of the better duellers of his year-group (behind Evans, always behind Evans) he’s nowhere near the level that’d be able to take the Dark Lord on and live.

Salazar damn it, he’ll never be able to get rid of the bastard if he didn’t find something useful soon.

Hence, he’s flicking through an astoundingly dark tome filled with time-delay curses and all sorts of archaic rituals. There has to be something in here that’ll grant him the ability to off the Dark Lord, something clever and efficient. He could really do without Cassiopeia’s hovering.

“How can I help you, dearest Aunt?”

“Don’t you give me that cheek, boy. Show your death-faking aunt some respect.” She sniffs prissily, nose high in the air and a smirk tugs involuntarily at Regulus’ lips.

“My apologies. As to why I am looking through it… research.”

“Research? Not to deal with the scorned secret lover, is it?”

The expression of distaste crosses his face before Regulus can help himself.

Would he kill Evans off? No. Kreacher has already offered him such a thing and Regulus had swiftly turned him down, perhaps too swiftly. While the idea of Evans continuing on with her life, finding some filth to settle down with and raise her mudblood children with is… discomforting, the concept of a world sans said Evans is even worse. Narrowly so, but it’s true.

“For the Dark Lord, actually.”

“Pah, everything you’ve done so far is for that blasted Dark Lord. Aunt, I need to fake my death, Aunt, I need to untraceably kill someone, Aunt, I need some more groceries.”

“Kreacher deals with the groceries,” Regulus grumbles, settling himself into the plush leather chair with a deep sigh. Aunt Cassiopeia is on a roll it seems, charging forwards Hippogriff style with no acknowledgement of his exceptionally bored expression.

“Just once do something for the scorned secret lover, I need details, young man.”

“I’m not giving you blackmail to put in that accursed book.” No matter how open-minded Cassiopeia seems, no matter how she disapproved of the Dark Lord, she’s still a Black. Toujours pur. Regulus isn’t going to run the risk of her his aunt kicking him from her protection; he’s far too much of a Slytherin for that.

“Just you watch, I’ll find out, Regulus Black, I always do.”

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

 

 

 

The little cottage she gets isn’t as comely or large as what the Potter’s have. It’s a relatively simple place, two bedrooms, a bathroom, living/dining room and the kitchen. Still, it’s got a nice big garden with an apple tree at the bottom and if it weren’t for all the shit that’s been thrown at her right now, then maybe Poppy’d have lived a quiet, happy life here.

“So, have you started a baby name list yet?”

Poppy hums at the question, wand pointed at the second-hand sofa she’d purchased from a muggle charity ship before she gives it a quick wave. Reparo works wonders, the delicate stitching reasserting itself across the fabric, the dullness that comes from years of use rapidly stripped back until it looks brand new.

With a frown, Poppy turns the rich green sofa into an earthy brown, matching the Hufflepuff yellow (the intensity of said colour toned right down) of her walls.

“Not yet. Did you know yellow is the most productive colour you can surround yourself with?” Poppy murmurs, summoning the large cushions they’d dumped in the hallway to the sofa. Those are charmed the same low-vibrancy yellow as the walls, the edging of their cases black and they match perfectly.

Hell, she just needs a great deal of plant-life and a bit more emphasis on the wooden features of her cottage and then she’ll be right at home in the Hufflepuff common room.

“Your house pride is showing, Pop. So, can I give you some suggestions for names?”

Sometimes it seems like Lily is more excited about this baby than she is.

“Sure. But I’ve already decided flower names for a girl. Gotta keep tradition strong, you know?” It’s also why she’s been flicking through her old astronomy books.

Like it or not (and really, Poppy’s not sure how she feels about it) her little bud’s father is from the Black family. Which means star names, even if she’s not sure if Regulus would acknowledge the child.

He might because, honestly, Poppy cannot picture him not taking the opportunity to fight with her over something/anything at all.

But the rest of the Black family… now she’s got a pretty damn good feeling on where they stand on this. One only needs to look to Andromeda Tonks née Black to know for sure.

So, star names for a boy, but subtle as hell ones.

“How about Daisy?”

“I think Petunia has first dibs on that, given her last name now.”

“Daisy Dursley… urgh, you’re right.”

“Of course I’m right, I was always better than you at English.”

Lily snorts, pushing her in the arm and Poppy grins, levitating the ‘new’ sofa into prime position. The house is slowly coming along after this room it’s just the bathroom that needs tidying up. That and the nursery, but that’s a bridge Poppy’ll cross at a later point the in time.

“Aster?”

“Nope, hate that,” Poppy grumbles, nodding in approval when Lily finishes reshaping the coffee table to an acceptable width.

“Bluebell?”

“While the Bell nickname is cute, I don’t like the full thing.”

“Fleur?”

“Too French.”

“Primrose?”

“Too proper.”

Lily huffs, arms folding across her chest as she full out glares at her.

“Well it’s a good thing you’ve got a few months till you pop that child out,” Lily grumbles, looking distinctly disgruntled that she’s had every last one of her suggestions shot down.

“You haven’t suggested any boy names yet.”

“I think it’s gonna be a girl,” Lily mumbles, eyeing Poppy’s stomach speculatively.

The younger Evans straightens under the stare, one hand rising up to rest protectively atop her slowly expanding midriff.

“You do?”

“Yep. I’d love a little niece to spoil.”

“Speaking of nieces to spoil, why isn’t Potter bugging you for a kid yet?”

Because honestly, Poppy cannot see him leaving Lily alone over the matter. He must want kids, she can’t imagine him allowing Harry into a world at war unless he’d desperately wanted him.

Her sister is blushing.

Eyebrow rising, Poppy abandons her attempts to build the bookshelf, instead scooting closer to her sister to poking at her flushing cheeks.

“I kinda haven’t told him yet.”

“You haven’t? What, does he just think I’m getting fat?”

The fact Lily reddens even more proves that’s exactly what Potter’s been thinking and Poppy chortles in delight.

“He told me I should stop inviting you over for dinner so often! He thinks I’m fattening you up by giving you the biggest portion and he’s jealous!”

Snickers dissolving into a full blown, belly-deep laughter, Poppy buries her face in her hands, completely unable to look at her sister.

“What a numpty! You should have married Remus.”

“I’ve got enough brains for both me and James.” On that, Poppy can agree.

They sit in a companionable silence for the next few minutes, Lily slowly adding decoration to the edging of her bookshelf as Poppy begins to store her more guest friendly books, the vast majority of which were heisted from the Room of Hidden Things.

Of course when Lily leaves, Poppy’s gonna go about setting up a secret little room behind said bookcase. She has magic, small house or not, there’s no way she’s not going to have some form of secret room in here. Maybe even more than one. Pushing the last book into place, Poppy tilts her head back to stare at Lily.

“Hey…wanna see how many references we can get in before Potter clicks?” Her sister tries to frown disapprovingly, she really does. But there’s a glimmer of mischief in her eyes that Poppy knows all too well from their childhood.

“You’re on.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

“How goes your foray into premeditated murder, dear Nephew?”

Head hanging back over the arm of the chair, Regulus forcibly stills his body from squirming in place. This is his damn safehouse and if he wants to be laid out across the sofa he’ll damn well lay out across the sofa. His parents aren’t here to chide him for it and he highly doubts Cassiopeia will care all that much. As for her question-

“I have the bare bones of a plan.”

Oh sure, right now he’s kicking himself for not giving Ancient Runes every last inch of his attention (because then maybe he’d be able to pull this off right now instead of having to triple check everything with other books for reference) but Regulus is a fucking Black. If he lets a little thing like not having enough knowledge get in the way of his goals, then he should be blasted right off the family tapestry. Which, come to think about it-

“Aunt, did you deal with the family tapestry when faking my death?”

“What do you take me for, a fool? That was the first thing I altered,” Cassiopeia scoffs, dropping a large black book atop the coffee table. It’s far too small to be the fabled Black Book of Blackmail, but it’s something Cassiopeia owns so it’ll be interesting nonetheless.

“I’ve been looking for any roots of our Dark Lord weed,” she states primly, flicking the cover back to showcase a long, long list of names. “This is every student who has attended Hogwarts during the 20th century so far, and this,” there’s a short wave of her wand and the book shrinks, until there’s only a handful of pages left, “is the list of students attending wen the fabled Chamber of Secrets was said to be opened. Given what our Dark Lord is claiming-”

“He has to be one of them,” Regulus rightly concludes, jolting into a seated position to better inspect the information Cassiopeia is offering. “It’s not Hargrid.” That’s struck off right away; clearly the half-breed was the scapegoat for the whole incident. There’s no way the heir would’ve been caught so easily. And as the Heir of Slytherin, then it can be assumed the Dark Lord was placed in Slytherin House, eliminating three quarters of the rest of the names.

“Someone ambitions, smart and charismatic,” Cassiopeia mutters, each word accompanied by a flick of her wand, severing several names from the list in each sweep, until only a meagre five are left. “Excellent, now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go do some research on our top five.” She grins, wicked and vicious and Regulus is left wondering why she’d come to bother him at all.

He’s not even going to pretend he understands women, pureblood or otherwise.

It’s not like he’d ever understood Evans either; that’d been part of the draw with her. She’d refused to break, to bend like a delicate rose in the face of such harsh wind. She really is a good example of her namesake, growing amidst so much war. Hell knows if she’s not cut down Regulus’ll probably end up seeing her everywhere.

That’s what poppies do; they’re even acknowledged as the first type of flower capable of growth in a patch of earth exposed to Fiendfyre. After a few years of course, but nevertheless, the first type of flower to grow. They’re hardy plants and Evans’ name is probably the only flowery eponym she’d suit.

Though muggles could hardly give her a name even remotely related to Fiendfyre.

Because that’s what she is, in truth. A bewitched flame; everything she touches she just, consumes.

Fucking hell, she’d consumed him, encased him in all that heat and burning brilliance until she was all he could focus on in those painful moments in a one of thousands muggle home.

Scorching blue eyes that’re seared into his brain, that stalk him in his sleep, voice the same haunting crackle of those wicked flames, just as distinctive as it is unforgettable.

Merlin damn it, he actually misses her.

Misses meetings in untraversed corridors, misses the tight press of thighs against sides, misses the challenging nip of teeth against lips. He misses that wicked little slip of a girl.

Regulus laughs, head dropping into his hands.

Damn that woman.

He shouldn’t still be thinking about her but it’s not like he’d been particularly close to anyone else, not the point where he’d miss them. Father and Mother had expressed the need to make connections in Slytherin House, but the whole lot of them had been too obsessed in their perceived superiority to even register Regulus slipping away for his dirty little secret.

Who knows what else they missed? No, he’d had no intellectual equal within his own house, none that he’d have bothered to gift with his time.

Snape was the only one who proved somewhat interesting, and when he wasn’t trying to worm his greasy self into the good graces of the purebloods he so envied, he was busy lusting after the other Evans. Too wrapped up in the belief that just because he was the first male to show an ounce of kindness then he was entitled to something.

No, that’s not how women work; they make no sense at all.

Regulus has never once extended a hint of kindness towards Evans (that one time he’d gotten her off not withstanding) but she’d kept coming back. She kept giving as good as she got.

And he respected her for it. There’s no lying on that front.

Is this how the first pureblood fell? A disinterest in their surroundings, a mudblood that shone just a bit too brightly-

A breathy moan that could almost pass as an abbreviation of his name.

He’s clearly been in isolation too long if he can dedicate so much time to the Quidditch pile-up that is his interactions with Evans; he needs to focus more, needs to destroy Voldemort so he can start piecing his life back together.

 To find a way to make it whole without Evans somehow forcing her way in.

 

 


	11. Chapter 11

 

 

 

 

"I'll marry ya."

"No thanks."

Potter snorts, running a hand through his hair and shaking his head. She's glad someone finds this amusing. The two prankster idiots are grating on her last nerve.

"Why would she wanna marry a flea-riddled mongrel like you, Padfoot?"

"Maybe because I took one look at her and knew she was pregnant, not fat, antler-head."

Hiding her snickers behind her hand at the name-calling the two have resorted to, Poppy relaxes back into the plush comfort of Lily's sofa, the Potter's black cat curling up in a ball of lazy contentment by her feet.

The long running joke of Potter not knows about her pregnancy had come to an end the previous week, when Lupin had been present at the dinner table. He'd taken one sniff and blurted out that she was pregnant, turning to a suddenly choking James and hissing that 'you'd told me she was just getting fat!', much to Sirius' delight.

The elder Black had known right from the start, taking one look at her stomach and wiggling his brows in that smug, taunting way of his. He'd not said a word though, instead instantly clicking onto what she and Lily were up to and happily joining in.

Regardless, the whole thing is over now.

Her hands stroke over her rounding stomach, feeling the movement of the baby within as the two continue arguing. The little bud's already kicking away, not-

"Is she kicking?!"

Lily shoves Potter out of the way, swigging sitting herself down beside Poppy and scaring the cat away with her sudden movement.

Not that she's told anyone the kid's moving about yet, Poppy finishes thinking with a sigh, lifting her hand up for Lily to start feeling up her bump.

"Oh my- she's kicking!"

"He's kicking?" Potter squawks, tangled with Sirius who has also made to leap forwards at the same time. Thus, instead of crowding around her, the two end up in a crumpled heap on the floor.

"It's a girl, I can feel it," Lily grumbles, sticking her tongue out at Potter, hand still stroking away at Poppy's belly and it's starting to get a bit strange now.

"Lils! I wanna greet the kid too!"

"Hush, she's my niece which means I'm more important."

"Yeah, well Popsie is gonna name the bratling after me!"

Both Potter and Lily pause, identical looks of 'did I really just hear that' on their faces. In unison, they swing around to glare at Sirius, Sirius who grind utterly unrepentantly at the duo.

"Hell no she's not."

"Keep calling me those stupid names and I'll name it after your mother or something, in hopes the brat'll bring you just as much grief," Poppy grumbles, though she has absolutely zero intention of ever doing so.

The look of absolute horror on Sirius' face is worth the threat.

"Do you actually have any names picked out yet, Pop-a-lee?"

"I've got one or two in the works, but I'm not sharing. Not until I actually slap a name on the kid. Then it'll be too late for the lot of you to try and change in," Poppy grumbles, folding her arms across her chest and sticking her tongue out at Lily.

It is with a very begrudging acceptance that she allows Potter and Sirius to start pawing at her stomach, trying to feel the little bud kick. Potter because he's the brat's uncle by marriage and Sirius because he's the blood uncle. Though in all honesty, Poppy's not quite sure what to make of that. Or how she's supposed to tell him. 'Oh, hey Sirius, but the way, the brat's your niece/nephew. Surprise'. Yeah, she's sure that'd go down well.

"The worst thing about this is going to those antenatal classes. The stares I get because I keep turning up alone are horrid. They looked appalled when I said I was on my own."

Poppy rolls her eyes, recalling memories of a time in which teenage mothers, single teenage mothers specifically, had been far more common than what they were now. Certainly, there'd been a lot less fuss about it, that's for sure.

"Well the muggles won't have a clue what they're on about. You should go to Saint Mungo's."

"And let some uppity pureblood find out and sell that information to the Dark Fools? I think not."

 

 

 

 

 

 

Leaving the Potter household, Poppy draws in a sharp, tight breath, holding it within her lungs for a handful of seconds. She's no Marauders fan, never will be, but she's willing to admit the three have… calmed significantly since leaving Hogwarts.

Or rather, Lupin and Potter had calmed.

Sirius had just lost his playmates and a good portion of his time. But she doesn't doubt there'll be more than a handful of pranks for her when he's informed of her baby's daddy.

Grimacing at the very thought, Poppy walks to the cottage gate, slipping through the cute little threshold that breaks up the quaint stone walls that surround the property.

The summer sun is warm on the back of her deck and for a moment, Poppy regrets her choice of jeans instead of a sundress. She'd not bothered to shave her legs in the past few days however, and while it'd just take a quick spell, she was planning on using it as an excuse to get a bath later tonight.

"You're Lily's sister, aren't you?"

Palming her wand, Poppy cocks her head to a side, inspecting the elderly woman beside her. She's not someone Poppy recognises on sight, but there's one very notable resident of Godric's Hollow that could be this old.

"And you're Bathilda Bagshot. How can I help you?"

"If your sister is believed, it is more of a how I can help you, Poppy Evans."

Lips thinning, Poppy rolls her wand over between her fingertips, staring at the elderly woman. She'd unquestionably win in a duel, quicker reflexes, pregnant or not. But, despite not knowing the woman's stance on blood status, Poppy doesn't feel like this is descend into violence.

"Okay then, what can you do for me, Madam Bagshot?"

"Dear Lily tells me you've left Hogwarts without finishing your education, and while I can see why, you'll find securing a job difficult."

"If you're here to rub that in the my face, then save it. I won't have a problem finding a job," Poppy grits out. Worst comes to worst, she can retreat into the muggle-world and magic her way into a job over there. Though that is a last resort kind of thing; she despairs the very idea of having to hide part of herself, all just to get a job.

"You've got bite, girl," Bagshot mutters, a smile crossing her weathered lips. "I like that. Work as my assistant for my research. These old eyes are not what they used to be."

What.

"What?" Poppy hisses, head coiling back slightly, neck straining as she stares down at the shorter woman. But, but this would solve a multitude of problems for her. Something to do during the hours unoccupied by the Potters, the hours that're becoming mind-numbingly boring. And it's a way for her to earn some money. There has to be a catch.

"History of Magic is far from the boring drivel that Binns'll have been filling your ears with."

"Of that, I'm aware. I just want to know why I should put my trust into the last remaining relative of Grindelwald."

"Oh, know about that do you? Seems I have made the right choice then. Come to my house nine o'clock sharp tomorrow."

And then she's gone, hobbling off up the street and leaving Poppy with a grudgingly amused smile on her lips.

Because, should she manage to live to a ripe old age, Poppy can rather see herself acting in a similar manner.

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Tom Marvolo Riddle."

"Excuse me?" Regulus Black snaps, putting down the glass tumbler that he'd been about to take a sip from.

"We have a Marvolo Gaunt, sent to Azkaban and his daughter, one Merope Gaunt, disappeared. Never officially declared dead but there was all that crap happening with Grindelwald at this point so the Ministry wasn't exactly on top of the whole 'who's alive right now' business. Poor handling really. Of far more interest to us however, is a muggle certificate of marriage to one Tom Riddle Jr. A muggle. A pureblood, claiming to be Salazar Slytherin's descendant, and given how her brother was reported to hiss at snakes perhaps a rather valid claim, married a muggle. And nine months later, we get a Tom Marvolo Riddle. Prefect, Head Boy, and present during the whole Chamber of Secrets fiasco."

"What."

Aunt Cassiopeia stands with one hand proudly upon her hip, a smug grin on her face, evidentially quite pleased with herself. As if she hasn't just locked Regulus' whole world in the Quidditch chest to take a battering with two over excited bludgers.

"As if that weren't enough," she flicks her wand in the air, writing the former Hogwarts student's full name out before easily rearranging the letters. "He probably thought he was so smart," Cassiopeia proclaims even as Regulus chokes, inspecting the 'I am Lord Voldemort' that is wrote out in the air before him.

Is his Aunt joking? No, she'd never do that.

But the Dark Lord is… a halfblood. A halfblood. Not even the offspring of a pureblood and mudblood, but a pureblood and an utter muggle. A muggle!

Goggling at his aunt, Regulus slouches back into his seat, supper near completely forgotten about, to Kreacher's evident distress.

Well, perhaps the house elf is distressed for the same reason Regulus feels like he's had his broom pulled out from under him.

A halfblood, preaching pureblood ways.

This is even worse than Snape trying to wiggle his way into being considered one of them. This is, it's utterly ridiculous.

Even worse, he's duped everyone. No one else knows this.

When Cassiopeia had come barrelling into his dining room looking absolutely frazzled, he'd been sure she was overreacting.

But she really wasn't.

This, this changes everything.

Fucking hell, he has to reconsider every damn thing he's ever been told.

Because now it's fact that the three most powerful wizards of the 20th century have all been halfbloods. Dumbledore and Grindelwald born from unions of a pureblood and a mudblood, the Dark Lord born of a pureblood and a fucking muggle.

By Merlin, is he actually dreaming? This cannot be real, can it?

"Still willing to go through with your plan, Nephew?"

"Yes."

There's no question about that. Regulus wants his life back.

He's not going to let a halfblood (but are they really beneath him if they're proving that much more powerful? Where are they as purebloods going wrong?) take that from him.

But there's now so much that doesn't make sense. Three ridiculously powerful half-bloods…

Has his family had it wrong, all this time Is pureblood truly not the preferred state?

He's struggling to recall someone with the capabilities of Dumbledore, of the Dark Lord, who also possesses pureblood. Bellatrix is exceptional with the dark arts, but only the dark arts. He can still recall her struggling through her charms homework, hissing and cursing the 'filthy half-breed' of a teacher.

Filius Flitwick had been a duelling champion, Regulus recalls, staring unseeingly at the food upon his plate, a deep frown straining his mouth. But if it is half-blood wizards whom magic touches the most… then the pureblood agenda is wrong.

Because for there to be halfbloods, there must be purebloods and mudblo- muggleborns. Purebloods and muggleborns. Muggleborns… the word tastes wrong, even just voice within the safety of his mind.

As if he's not questioning all the teachings of his house.

"Regulus Arcturus Black!"

Jumping, Regulus swings his attention back to Cassiopeia, spine straightening beneath her weighty glare.

"Yes, dear aunt?"

"I was asking after your murder plan." Yes, this is something he's had time to think about. He'll come back to the mudbl- muggleborn issue later.

It can be put off, in the same way those blue eyes haunting him can be pushed back for a little while longer.

 

 

 

 


	12. Chapter 12

 

 

 

"Is it worth it?"

Rubbing at her tired eyes, Poppy lifts her gaze to look over at Bathilda, a yawn rolling out from between her lips. It's probably far too late but here they both are, pouring over old notes and accounts from interviews long since passed. Hell, some of this stuff is probably even older than her mother, nevermind Poppy herself.

"Is what worth it?" She questions, drawing her wand across the reference she'd been looking for, highlight it and logging the words for later recall. A copy of the ink spirals off the page, dancing through the air before it slams into the wall Bathilda smears all of her notes across.

Their topic this week is the Viking invasion of Britain and all of the craft based spells that were brought along with them, along with the reaction of the natives. It's actually fascinating stuff, far more interesting than whatever drivel Binns had told her throughout school. She's learnt more in these past two weeks than she did in six and a half years at Hogwarts when it comes to history. Which is, well, a bit sad really. They'll have to get a new teacher to replace that ghost, it'll be a point for Poppy to bring up later.

That is, after she's temporarily deposed of Voldemort. It's the main reason she'd turned up outside of Bathilda's house that first morning; this house was once home to Grindelwald himself, for however short a period of time. It's the nearest thing she can think of to find some obscure magic, the only possible thing where she might find a reference to magic or any kind of hint at all as to a way to off Voldemort.

That she's coming to enjoy her work so much, well that's just a bonus. Not everyone gets a job they can enjoy, after all. In all honesty, Poppy had expected to be one of them, to just find something she could put up with. But this is interesting stuff.

The topic of the Vikings and their war invasion runes is a promising start for her quest, even if she hasn't been able to go snooping around Bathilda's home yet.

"The kid. Whatever you had with the father of your offspring."

"Why do you care? We've only known each other for two weeks," Poppy states matter-of-factly, running a hand through her hair and flicking the notes she's finished with into the 'used' pile.

"I never had kids," Bathilda mutters, squinting down at the page in her hand, the script upon it magically enlarged for her viewing ease, "but that was only because there wasn't a man I was interested enough in."

Now that is something Poppy can relate to.

If there was no Regulus around, not like if he was dead but if he'd never been born instead… She'd undoubtedly still be a virgin, would probably have already sorted out her Voldemort problem without him there to distract her.

But oh, he was the most delicious, bittersweet distraction.

"I don't regret it, if that's what you're asking. It wasn't some little love story like what Lily and Pott- Lily and James are living in right now," Poppy answers, making sure to stress Potter's name as she corrects herself. Because it's weird to not refer to him by his first name given he's her brother-in-law now.

But she still can't stop calling him Potter in her head. Not yet, at least.

"It was short, it was far from sweet, but it felt right to me." There'd been nothing wrong with it, both she and Regulus had been very willing participants in their little train-wreck of a quasi-relationship, if it could really be called that. There'd been a lot of focus on the physical side of things and while she might never know how it'd felt for him, Poppy had felt that little bit more, real with him.

He had to have felt something too, even if it hadn't been love. He could have had any pureblood girl spreading her legs for him with that silver tongue (and oh boy was that tongue something worth mentioning), but it was her thighs he'd hiked up around his hips. It was her ear that his panted breaths had rasped into, it was her nails that'd dug into pale masculine shoulders.

"I know Lily wouldn't understand it though, doesn't understand it. But maybe it's like with Thestrals in that you have to be a little damaged to even see it, nevermind understand the appeal."

Bathilda looks at her, lined brow heavy over her eyes. Poppy refuses to be intimidated though, instead flicking through the next clump of notes with a practiced ease, resting the papers upon her bump. It's already uncomfortably large and that's only two-thirds of the way into this pregnancy. Quite frankly, Poppy highly doubts she'll ever want another bratling (Sirius' stupid name has stuck, damn his pureblood ass) because this is hell. Already she's struggling to manually put her flipflops on, the baby already in the way and she's not even close to popping the little bud out.

The wait is killing her.

"Does he know?"

"Well, we didn't exactly part on the best of terms; he's in hiding because of the war… like I am, I guess. It's not like I've been anywhere other than my parents' house and Lily's place since I left Hogwarts. It's Dolly that gets all the things I need now."

She'd never known how so damn helpful house elves were until she had one of her own. Dolly always beams whenever she's graced with a please or a thank you, but the little angel deserves every last one Poppy offers her.

It's time for a change in conversation topic now, Poppy's getting rather tired of reflecting on how very not together her life is right now. What with the desire to keep Lily alive conflicting with her desire to have a baby, to keep this baby.

It was probably a stupid move, keeping it, but Poppy couldn't care less. She's not completely selfless when it comes to her older sister and this is the one thing she wouldn't give up, even if it meant not cracking on with the Voldemort problem.

Plus, when the little bud is born, then she can take Lily up on that offer for babysitting. That'll keep them both safe while Poppy's out Dark Lord hunting.

"Do you think I'll be able to write my own book some time in the future?"

"It's quite possible. What would you write about?"

"Dark Lords, I think," Poppy concludes, wand tapping against the rounded side of her bump, watching the colours dance out across the material of her shirt. On a whim, she pulls it up to expose her swelling belly, tracing the stretch mark that had sneakily appeared during the week. A flick of her wand as the image of her baby overtaking the skin, formed in different shades of gold. Little limbs shift about, legs kicking out and Poppy can feel it against her skin.

"That won't be a terribly beloved topic," Bathilda grumbles dryly, only giving the baby a single curious glance before she returns to her own notes.

"But it'd be oh so interesting, wouldn't it? Don't you ever wonder why?"

Here the old woman pauses, eyes finding the cabinet by the wall, her eyes lingering on the photo of one tall, merry-wild blond. "All the time."

 

 

 

 

__

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

Adjusting the fabric that is wrapped tight around his left arm one more time, Regulus Black sucks in one long, slow breath before letting it pass between his lips.

The skin-tight, magical sleeve Cassiopeia had come up with to act as a 'block' for the Dark Mark appears to be working; Regulus hasn't felt the slightest tingle of sinister magic since he put the garment on. It'd have been so much better if his aunt could have found a way to banish the mark altogether (such an obvious blot, one of the biggest mistakes of his life, if not they biggest) but that'll take more research apparently.

How Evans could have laid beside him with that staining his skin, Regulus will never know. He doesn't understand her, not in the slightest.

Then again, Evans had never looked at him and seen only a shorter, leaner, less attractive variation of his brother. She'd only ever seen Regulus; constantly brought him to the peak of frustration but had never once made him feel lesser, like an imitative.

It'd been a good feeling. While it lasted.

Hunched beneath the invisibility cloak that'd been retrieved from Grimmauld Place by Kreacher (it's starting to wear, even though it's only been in their possession for three years, they'll have to by another one soon), Regulus watches the people pass into the Montague manor house, taking note of the heavily pregnant witch that keeps seeing off the people that leave the house from the Death Eater meeting that has just taken place inside.

Regulus' trap is set; he'd had Kreacher place the runic stones in a quarter semi-circle at the apparition point, the exact place the Dark L- no, the exact place Tom Marvolo Riddle would have to use in order to leave the area. In that, the Dark Mark has been good for something, having a trace of Riddle's magical signature within it. It's primed to explode the second the Riddle attempts to apparate out.

Regulus is only here to see the plan though, though he's got a portkey on him, one that he only needs to remove his thumb from the top off to send him right back to the safe house. Should Riddle realise there was danger lurking, that there's a premeditated attempt on his life waiting in the dark for him… well, Regulus will be well away from here before he can be caught, that's for sure.

Still, he finds himself holding his breath as the man walks out, dark cloak rippling around his body in the summer's wind. It is as is the world stops when Riddle steps into that snare; Regulus' breath is tight in his chest, his lungs burning but his ribs and abdominals refuse to mobilise, to move even an inch.

As if such a thing will mean Riddle knows what's happening before it's too late. But no, he steps into the hidden runic circle as if he is invincible.

And then the world goes white.

 

 

 

 

Before he situated himself down, Regulus believed he'd given himself more than enough distance from the blast radius.

Turns out he should have doubled that distance.

He's sprawled out on the grass, the shockwave from the explosion having blasted him several meters back but by the grace of Merlin, he'd ended up tangled in the invisibility cloak; it'd not been blown right off him. A damn good thing too, since the bastard somehow survived.

Oh, he's not intact, far from it.

That dark hair has been burnt right off and he looks more snakelike than ever with his charred skin peeling right off. He's not even standing anymore, forced onto his knees with arms still up to shield his face.

As far as the Black in hiding can tell, it is only Riddle's instinctive, neurotic magic that had saved his life.

Death Eaters are flooding out of the manor now, staring and screaming in horror but Regulus isn't worried about them in the slightest.

No, he's far more worried about Riddle, Riddle who seems to be in shock at his very near death but will soon be looking for the perpetrator.

Time to embrace that oldest and noblest of Slytherin traits; self-preservation.

Regulus removes his thumb from the portkey trigger, ripping him from the grounds of Montague manor and whatever volcanic rage Riddle is about to unleash.

 

 

 

 


	13. Chapter 13

 

 

 

 

She's with Lily when she hears the news; toes wet with an eye-searing shade of yellow.

"Potters! You home!?"

They both jump in surprise at the face in the fire, Lily swearing as she spills the pot of Gryffindor red she'd been tending to her own toes with. It bleeds across the sofa, glistening brilliantly in the light and Poppy watches it with detached interest. Hey, she can't go chase it, she's pregnant after all. Or, that's the excuse she's using.

The dirty look Lily shoots her tells her the elder witch knows it's an excuse just as much as she does. Oh well. It's a valid excuse, so Lily can say nothing.

"Yes, Moody, we're here."

"Who's we?! What's your security question, Evans?!"

Poppy snickers quietly into her hand, relaxing further back on the sofa with a content sigh, utterly engrossed with the head in the fire.

Mad Eye Moody. Only, without the Mad Eye, as of yet. Can't be long until he gets it though, can it?

"I'm going to go grab a bite while you deal with Paranoia over here," Poppy muses, slowly rising to her feet, hand on her belly as if the gesture would offer any substantial support.

Green eyes stare after her as she leaves, like this has been a significant betrayal or something. When it comes to crazy Aurors though, it's every witch for herself.

Especially when she's carrying 'Death Eater spawn', as Moody would no doubt put it.

 

 

 

 

 

Five minutes since the flaming head of suspicion appeared in the fireplace, and three bananas later, Poppy returns to the living room to find Moody still present, a scowl on his face and the chunk in his nose already missing.

"And who's this?!" He barks, eyes roving over her form, taking in the same brilliant red hair, the same vibrant eyes, even if the colouring does differ there.

"I'm Lily's evil twin," Poppy mutters sarcastically, rolling her eyes skywards as she drops onto the sofa, teeth guillotining the edge from her fourth banana. Lily grimaces in the background, no doubt disgusted by her blatant lack of table manners but Poppy's pregnant and has zero cares.

Besides, it's Moody that's interrupted their night, not the other way around.

"Your little sister, Evans?"

"It's Potter, if anything Poppy should be the Evans here."

"I'd rather be Evans than married to a bumbling fool like Potter. He's probably no idea what a 'precautionary measure is'." Not like Regulus, who has plans behind plans. She knows he only went for the Horcrux to atone for following a man made enough to mutilate his soul, that he couldn't see any other way than death. Because he cares too much for Kreacher to force the house elf to die in his place.

Poppy smiles at the thought, curling the left curtain of red hair behind her ear.

"Well, what news do you have for us, Moody? I think you can be certain my muggleborn sister isn't working for You-Know-Who, Moody."

"Can never be too careful in these times, Evans. Let's get a look at you then; bit fierce for a 'Puff, aren't you?"

Drumming up her best copied-from-Regulus sneer, Poppy sinks back into the sofa and folds her arms mutinously across her belly, scowling at the Auror who grins back unrepentantly.

"Someone just tried to seriously kill the Dark Bastard."

"What?!"

Moody nods, his grin now savage and proud. He looks exceptionally pleased, regardless of the fact there's a 'tried' in that sentence.

"Didn't manage to off the bastard, but reports say it was a near thing. Soon as he's recovered the bastard's no doubt gonna hunt the perpetrator down and we need to find him before then."

"Find him and pin a medal on him?" Poppy hazards a guess, the approval in Moody's eyes all too easy to read.

"If I had my way, girl, we'd have been trying something like that months ago. It's Dumbledore that says he should be brought to justice." And that is where they differ.

Lily would side with Dumbledore on this matter, but Poppy, Poppy's much more inclined to agree with Moody. Fuck paying for his crimes, Voldemort fears nothing more than death; that'd be exactly what he deserved. Moody's on the same wave length as her; this is war, and in war, you do whatever it takes to win.

And then, an idea strikes.

"Say, if certain pregnant muggleborn witches were wondering how to build up a resistance to the Imperius curse, would certain paranoid Aurors be willing to help?"

Fluttering her eyelashes at the warrior before her, Poppy relaxes further into the cushions at her back, smiling up at Moody as his grin turns manic.

"Certain paranoid Aurors would be pleased to see the younger generation practicing constant vigilance!"

Even though she had an incline it was coming, the phrase still makes her jump as it's bellowed at the top of his lungs.

Lily gives her the stink eye but Poppy couldn't care less. She needs this.

It's been weighing on her mind ever since she started considering how to get at the Horcruxes protected by Malfoy and Lestrange. Both seem too strong willed (or at the very least, terrified of disappointing their master) for her to risk using the Imperius Curse on them. Should Voldemort so much as get a hint that someone was on to him, those Horcruxes would be out of her reach faster than she could say 'Quidditch'.

But that'd brought up another point.

The Imperius Curse is a problem for her too. Poppy isn't so sure of her ability to resit it, which means she needs to work at it. And who else would she trust than the paranoid Auror before her?

"Poppy, you can't be serious-"

"Better to have and not need, then to need and not have, Lily," Poppy recites, eyes still on Moody, which is why she doesn't miss the approving nod he gives her.

And that's settled; she'll be getting Imperius lessons from Mad Eye.

If it's a good idea or not, Poppy doesn't know, only that she needs it.

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

"I can't decide if you're a wicked delight or a complete fool!"

Regulus sits upon the floor of his safehouse, copious notes littering the wooden boards around his hunched form, quill in hand as he tries to figure out where exactly it'd gone wrong.

Had he not gone in with enough firepower? Had it taken too long to charge up? Had the trigger of Voldemort and Voldemort's presence alone derailed the runic combination? Runes has never been his greatest strength (Evans had him beaten out there, as she had with any other subject but astronomy and transfigurations) yet Regulus thought he'd gotten enough of an understanding to use them efficiently. To use them effectively.

But Riddle still lives. Even if he is on the extra crispy side right now, that's something magic can fix. Eventually.

He'll have to come up with a completely different plan of attack this time as well, because now Riddle'll be expecting another explosive attack. He'll be expecting another attempt on his life. He's lost the element of surprise now. And he really could do without Aunt Cassiopeia scolding him like a child.

"Aunt-"

"No! Don't you dare 'aunt' me, Regulus Arcturus Black! I am here to act as your sounding board, to help you when you need it because there's no one else to reach out to for you. Family sticks together, child, and you would do well to remember that." Cassiopeia gives him one final stern stare before she sweeps out of the room, robes billowing behind her.

The fireplace in the backroom ignites but he can't find the energy to be too bothered by his aunt effectively storming out on him. He has, after all, bigger and more important things to spend his time thinking over.

Yet, he still finds himself thinking of Evans, still puzzling over the conundrum of blood when he should be focused on taking Riddle out.

It doesn't matter that the only woman who has ever interested him is no longer off limits.

No, that's not quite the way to put it. She'd never been 'off limits' to begin with; it was more than just his silly prejudice, a mindset forced upon him from a young age, that stopped things from continuing further than they did.

Given the current political climate, his family background, announcing themselves as a couple would have been suicidal a move. In the very least, he can thank the pureblood agenda for that.

Even now, it doesn't change the fact muggleborns are so ridiculous ignorant to the world in which they come into. They assume that because they remain in the same country that the culture is the same. They don't understand that the magical world has been a separate state since the Statue of Secrecy was implemented, that hundreds of years with minimal interaction have resulted in their two worlds developing different cultures, different rules.

That alone is shown in the gender equality that the wizarding world has boasted of for so long.

Evans never cared for any of that, but it had never been about disregarding the culture she came into. Perhaps she'd looked into it, but had she, Regulus gets the feeling Evans' has found some of their ways unnecessary and just dismissed them completely.

That seems just like her, and he doesn't even try to stop the fond smile. He doesn't know what they are- no wait, they aren't anything right now.

He's just Regulus and Evans if off doing whatever Evans does in her free time. She'll have finished Hogwarts now, won't she? He doesn't doubt she'll have got the best scores of their year, to the envy and anger of his former housemates. The thought pleases him. Those idiots who follow so thoughtlessly.

Not to say Regulus himself wasn't one of them until very recently. He's not blind; he's well aware it's not just down to his own intelligence but due to Riddle's arrogance that he managed to figure out the Horcrux existed.

But that is gone now, a charred shell of what had once been famous history. Regulus had been sad to see it go, but the locket had to be destroyed. Another crime to lump upon Riddle's head, as if he did not already have enough of them.

He needs to be taken care of soon. The sooner he sorts out the issue of Riddle, the sooner he can deal with his Evans issue.

Because he's not content with how things are right now. He doesn't even know what they had before, cannot find the words to describe it.

But it was more than this.

Evans had interested him, still does interest him; his blood races and most of the time she drives him to madness until they both find themselves at wand point.

But fuck it if he doesn't miss those hands roaming over his body, the way her lips had always lifted in that taunting smirk whenever she'd gotten to orgasm before him and left him high and dry.

That one tender moment when she's brushed the hairs back from his forehead with an expression unlike any other he had seen on her face.

Fuck, he has no idea what they were, what they were close to becoming before they'd both stepped away from that cliff edge.

But now he's wishing he'd taken that jump, that he'd figured out what possibly could have been, damn the consequences.

The regret is pooling in his stomach because he might not have been able to see how deep the ocean had been, might not have been able to see if there were any rocks waiting beneath the surface to shatter him, but it had promised a delicious refreshment that he hadn't thought he needed.

Not until he finds himself back on the safe path and sweltering in the heat, looking back in the direction of the cliffs and wondering if Evans is thinking about returning to that drop too.

 

 


	14. Chapter 14

 

 

 

 

 

It’s the scent that hits her; the smell that bludgeons at her nose before she reaches a large body of water, the one that inspires thoughts of drowning beneath crushing depths.

Regulus is a summer shower and a tropical monsoon, a calm lake and roaring ocean. He is water, the smooth ebb and flow, the thunderous downpour. His scent is the same, a primordial warning sign that she’s going to get swept away and Poppy Evans cannot swim.

It’s muted and that’s how she knows this is a dream, a half-hazed concoction of her mind desperately reaching out for the one thing that’d inspired fascination. How brooding dark eyes had become brilliant silver, bright against the near ever-present composure of his face. How his lips had always wrapped their way around her surname, muttering that first vowel as if it were the beginning of a curse, forming the last consonant with the passion of a revered sinner.

It’d been easy to get swept up, and now that she’s downstream, Poppy doesn’t see much reason to not remain there, now that she’s been torn from the previous comforts she once experienced, comforts that’ll never feel the same again.

Maybe it’s lazy, and maybe it’s easy, but life had just seemed so much smoother when she could forget the outside world and focus on the hands grasping at her hips. She’d gotten so much done in that time too, had located a Horcrux, learnt so much in her desperation driven studies, had saved Regulus’ life… and then all happened.

Perhaps it seems better looking back on it, Poppy doesn’t know.

What she is aware of is that she wakes to painful contracts in her stomach and a wetness between her thighs.

 

 

 

 

It takes seven hours. Seven long, painful hours.

Though the sun still hides in the east, they are several hours into the morning of October 1st and it becomes blatantly obvious early in the process why so few witches risk birthing in muggle hospitals, despite the current political climate.

The lamp on the bedside table shatters, the laws of physics defined as the pieces embed themselves in the south facing wall, well aware from her physical self.

Poppy can barely focus upon it though, her chest heaving. There’s an intense pain in her lower back, searing its way beneath the skin, as if the sensation of her organs twisting and turning wasn’t enough. Perspiration beads down her face, there’s sweat-drenched strands of hair sticking to her forehead but Poppy can hardly let go of the bed to move them; she’ll tear the tresses right out if she tries.

It doesn’t feel like she’s trying to squeeze out a baby, it feels like she’s trying to squeeze out every last organ, muscle and blood vessel she as in her.

The pushing, when it comes, is a relief.

It all passes in a blur, a sweeping wave of sensations that drags her under and keeps her trapped in the backwash until her lungs are screaming for air; she barely even remembers that it wasn’t Regulus that pushed her into this, that it was her own decision to keep this. She dived into this rouge wave herself.

There are no thoughts of never doing it again, there’s no swearing and cursing, there’s just the focus on getting through the sensations, a focus broken only by sweet relief and a baby’s cry.

When Poppy collapses back, she doesn’t even have the energy to keep staring up at the ceiling, doesn’t have the power to keep her eyes open. Lying there, the sheets drenched in all of the sweat she’s shed this past hour; any other day she’d have been disgusted. Hell, she still is, but she really doesn’t have the energy to reach for her wand and spell them clean. That would, after all, require her to roll onto her side and reach for the elder wood and right now she has no intentions of moving ever again.

“You’re quiet, Lily,” Poppy rasps, surprised her tongue is capable of even the slightest bit of movement.

Her child is still crying, she can hear them, but there’s no proclamation of boy or girl from her dear sister.

Lily who’d dealt with what Sirius had dubbed the ‘pregnancy paranoia’ like a champ. Lily who’d learnt all the spells she’d need to help out because Poppy doesn’t do trust, has never done trust and really can’t do friends either. It’s not like she could have enlisted anyone else to help.

“Just, just surprised, that’s all…” Lily whispers and when Poppy drums up the strength to open her eyes, she finds her sister staring down at the source of all the noise, form wrapped in a thick blue blanket.

Well, that answers her question of boy or girl. She’d got a son.

Regulus has a son.

Fucking hell, Sirius has a nephew he can corrupt. Not that he’s aware of that.

Honestly, Poppy’s not sure if he should be made aware. Forget the niceties, she has no idea how Sirius would react, other than loudly. And loudly is far from what she wants, loudly will attract attention.

And the last thing she needs is attention, especially of the notoriously pure-blooded Black family.

Everyone and their aunt knows how the Black family feels about mudbloods; should they learn their last official heir has sired a bastard child with one of such dirty blood? Well, she wouldn’t put it past them to try and kill her child. And then said child would be growing up with Lily, because Poppy would be prison for a murder spree.

“He doesn’t have a sixth toe, does he?” Well, given his father and the Black Family motto, it’s a legitimate concern.

“Not right now… but he might be capable of growing one.”

“What.”

Lily’s expression is a study in contrary, eyes filled with confused determination, even though there’s a perfectly loving smile as she gazes down at her nephew.

At Poppy’s child.

At the baby that’s been growing in her stomach for so long. She’s been cooking that child for nine-months on slow heat, everything better had come out okay.

When the baby is placed in her arms, it’s then that Poppy realises there’s no problem, per se, other than how she’s going to explain the sunshine yellow hair that’s slowly transitioning into Slytherin green.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

’ _17 magical among 301 dead in Shrewsbury attack; Baskerville heir, the sole survivor, in critical condition_ ’

 

Throwing the newspaper down upon the coffee table, Regulus Black rakes a hand through the tangled, greasy strands of his hair, kicking hard at the armchair. It goes skidding across the room, crashing to the floor and he curses the featherlight charms that’d been attached to the furniture.

It’s the fifth attack within the past two months, all conducted by the recently recovered Riddle himself. Every death from here on out… partial responsibility can be weighed upon Regulus’ shoulders.

He failed to kill the pretender and now, now he’s enraged and hunting Regulus down. Even though he has no idea of his assailant, he’s just lashing out and cutting through the population, murdering anyone and everyone who opposes him.

“Master Regulus?”

Gritting his teeth, Regulus bites down on the urge to snap, to send Kreacher away.

It’s not the house elf’s fault, it’s not Regulus’ place to vent on the only other being he converses with, barring Aunt Cassiopeia. His aunt can take it and give it all back ten-fold, Kreacher would never do so and it is for that reason Regulus holds his tongue.

Even as his molars dig deep into the edges of the muscle, until pain zings across the surface. But it’s enough of a distraction, enough to draw his attention back to his thoughts and to seal his lips shut.

It is only after he has calmed a little, only after he has swallowed the rant down, that Regulus allows himself to speak.

“I need a little time alone right now, Kreacher.”

“Does Master Regulus wish to go flying?” It’s spoken slyly, Kreacher’s lips twitching up into a small smile and Regulus would be far more irritated if the offered distraction wasn’t actually appealing. He hasn’t been flying since his sixth year, hasn’t rose up on a broom and just soared in an even longer space of time.

Flying… Flying sounds fantastic right now.

“If you would fetch my broom, please, Kreacher?”

 

 

 

 

Hair half-scraped back into a stubby ponytail, Regulus rolls through the air, trousers tucked deep into his boots even as the wind attempts to entice them out.

He needs a new way to assassinate Riddle, some way that doesn’t use runes. Or in the very least, uses no runes that could be linked back to the previous batch. The pretender will be aware of those now, he will research the cause behind his near death, he’ll be impervious to it in short order. If he’s already out, already chasing after his attacker, chances are good he’s already managed such a thing, which means Regulus needs to come up with a new plan.

Maybe there’ll be something within the natural world that he could use? While chances are good that Riddle is immune to all the common poisons and the uncommon ones… There’s no possible way he’d be able to create an immunity to basilisk poison, is there? The only known cure is phoenix tears and the thought of a phoenix in Riddle’s vicinity, nevermind one willing to cry upon his poisoned wound, is laughable. Unfortunately, there’s not been a sighting of a live basilisk for hundreds of years, all for a number of very good reasons.

This doesn’t help Regulus with his Dark Lord problem, however.

Falling into a smooth loop de loop, Regulus comes level with the house to find Cassiopeia stood by the back door, her face blank and posture wooden. She’s also staring remarkably hard at him, which is never a good sign.

So far in his voluntary confinement (for his own safety of course) she has chewed him out on an uncountable number of occasions.

While she agrees that the death of Riddle is very much a necessity, his aunt believes it a job best left to the Aurors. As if they will actually do such a thing with Dumbledore of all people influencing them. The chances of that happening… well he’d sooner see Malfoy slumming it with the muggles in their uniformly built huts and  sleeping on their rough linen.

Nudging the broom down, Regulus smoothly dismounts, approaching his aunt with a respectable about of caution. Several times she’s severed up a stinging hex to reprehend him, and they hurt.

It takes him a moment of staring off to the side, takes several seconds before he can register the pain exploding across the side of his face means he’s been slapped. Physically slapped across the face.

His wand is in hand, the tip grazing Cassiopeia’s own as the stares down at him. She has the advantage, despite being several inches shorter she stands upon the steps to the house and Regulus rather regrets dismounting his broom.

“The only reason I am not ejecting you from this household is because I assume that you didn’t know.”

“Didn’t know what, dear aunt?”

Regulus wipes at the side of his face with his free hand, taking careful note of the blood that smears upon his finger. One of Cassiopeia’s rings must have caught his cheekbone; it’d explain the sharper sting that resides there.

“That you didn’t know your scorned secret lover was pregnant, of course.”

 

 

 

 


	15. Chapter 15

 

 

 

 

Green holds steady with blue; at least Lily had been kind enough to bring her breakfast before beginning this standoff.

Poppy squirms uncomfortably upon her now cleansed bedding, grimaces as her shirt brushes against her nipples. No one warned her breastfeeding would lead to soreness and she’s only done three feeds so far.

The discomfort doesn’t stop Poppy from slowly stroking at the wisps of ever changing hair that tops her son’s perfect little head. Even if that pulsating soft spot on the top is freaky as hell.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, Pop, but metamorphmagus genes are primarily a Black family trait.”

Something must have shown on her face because Lily’s own crumples, head shaking back and forth as she rises to her feet.

Poppy watches her sister pace, already feeling tired from simple observation of the movement.

“Was he drunk?”

“Excuse me?!”

“Sirius! Was he drunk?! I’ll kill him for this.”

Poppy stares, utterly stunned by her sister’s failed attempt at conclusion jumping. Unhinged, a bark of laughter escapes her lips before she can stop it, as unintentional as any accidental magic she’s ever performed.

“Gods, Lily, I can honestly say I have never once been attracted to Sirius, just appreciated his aesthetic appeal.”

Lily’s mouth works soundlessly for a moment, her eyes darting to the baby, then back and Poppy can see the moment it all slots into place, the moment she registers the only other… perpetrator.

“No,” gasps Lily, her eyes round with her stunned disbelief. “Regulus Black?!” It’s a hiss, a sharp, low hiss but it wakes Regulus’ baby all the same. As sensitive as his father, Poppy thinks with a wry smirk.

But where there had been a desire to taint, to fight and lock horns with Regulus, she feels nothing but protective maternal instincts towards the tiny human she brought into the world.

Regulus might have contributed to the creation of this little being, but that’s about the same as purchasing dragon’s blood from the Apothecary. She’s the one who’d put in all the effort, though admittedly that was because Regulus didn’t know what had happened, didn’t know about the after effects of that one moment where they’d both slipped.

Poppy doesn’t regret it, wouldn’t have regretted it even if she hadn’t gotten a baby out of the deal. Regulus is off playing dead though, off figuring out a way to destroy that Horcrux he acquired, and Poppy has no way to contact him. Not without getting the Black family involved, and like hell will she risk approaching them.

They’re more likely to curse the blood from her body than allow her to speak a word in their presence.

“Regulus Black, Sirius’ little brother?!”

It seems like Lily is still quite stuck on that little fact.

“Yes, Regulus Black,” dryly repeating the name, Poppy lays her son across her chest, his little face resting just below her collarbone as she reclines back on the bed.

She has naming to consider now, and what she had planned before doesn’t seem to fit anymore. How does the metamorphmagus thing work anyway>? According to the baby books (and yes, Poppy has read more than her fair share of those) her little bud cannot see any colour right now, so how does it work when his hair seems to be twisting between silver and purple right now? Is it just his magic circling at random? It’s certainly going to make the next visit from her parents fun.

“Poppy,” Lily all but whines, a look of obfuscation upon her face, “why?”

“Because it was fun? Because he was the only person I, well, not got along with but… ah, it’s difficult to explain. Interacting with him came naturally. There were no masks, no dancing around one another. There was a blunt honesty I’ve never gotten from anyone else.”

Because Regulus had seen no need to be dishonest with her; she’d been a mudblood and he’d been the asshole Slytherin.

Yet still they’d gravitated to each other.

Were she more romantic, perhaps she’d question if it were the souls destined for one another, betrayed by the bodies they’d been stuffed into. But it’s not true, it’s Regulus’ own prejudices that prevents anything truly important, and Poppy is not blind to her own faults. She could have proclaimed she knew of the Horcruxes, could have opened up the potential of working together. She could have done, if she wanted a partnership.

This, however, is a task better handled on her lonesome; chances are Regulus would just get in the way. He’s not exactly given her a ringing endorsement, what with the whole near-dying thing upon his own death.

Poppy’s self-aware enough to recognise she shouldn’t judge, but she doesn’t care enough to attempt actually trying such a thing.

“Urgh, we will be speaking about this-”

“Why? It’s my life, my choices.”

“I know, but I want you to be happy, Pop. Excuse me if I don’t think a Slytherin like Black could manage that?”

“So, I should find a Slytherin like Snape, is that it?”

As soon as the words tumble out of her mouth, Poppy… well she doesn’t wish she could take them back, but she wishes she could have phrased it a bit better, brought up the topic at another time. She’d never liked Snape, his double-standards and near obsession with Lily, and her sister knows it too.

It’s exactly why Lily knows she doesn’t have a leg to stand on when it comes to the topic of Slytherins and unhealthy relationships.

“I cut Severus out of my life, Poppy.”

“Do you see Regulus here?”

Lily’s lips thin, evidentially irritated by counter and Poppy gives up. Time for a change of topic.

“It’s Sol, by the way.”

“Excuse me?”

“Your nephew’s name. It’s Sol Lilium Evans. Sol for the sun, which poppies will wither without,” Poppy whispers, rubbing her thumb down the plump cheek of her little boy, not daring to look up at Lily’s face.

“And Lilium for you.”

It all still fits with the Black family star theme, after all their sun is a star, no matter how using the Latin name for the big orb of fire in the sky may be a little obscure a reference. While Lilium, both a star and flower reference in one. The only reason the kid’s not ended up with that as his first name is because it’s a little bit… girly. That and (though Lily will never learn this) Poppy absolutely hates the scent of lily flowers.

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

There’s a little face beneath his. There’s a little face beneath his on the family tapestry. A tiny little face with no distinguishable features and one of those awful hats that everyone on the tapestry gets, but there’s a face all the same.

No marriage line (the ones that have to be added manually) but there’s a child line. Because there’s a child. His child.

“Walburga is distraught. She cannot comprehend why your lover has not come forwards with the new Black heir.”

Cassiopeia’s eyes are heavy as they stare at him, he can feel them like Atlas must feel the world, but Regulus cannot find the strength to look from the miniature tapestry he has been presented with.

“She has asked me to locate the woman, but I get the feeling… this little child is not as pure blooded as the family would approve of.”

Regulus’s head snaps up to stare at his aunt, willing, daring her to say anything else. It’s been a whole twenty-four hours since his aunt slapped him around the face, disappearing and leaving him to stew. She’d returned with a miniature of the family tapestry, but it’s not like Regulus had been sitting idle. Well, not the entire time. Admittedly a fair portion had been spent staring blankly at the floor, trying to comprehend this enormous gamechanger.

He’s both irritatingly proud and beyond curious when Kreacher proves incapable of tracking Evans down. He wouldn’t have expected any less of the menace, but it still makes his job to find his child infuriatingly difficult.

Kreacher, beside himself for failing ‘Master Regulus’, is off scoping out Diagon Alley in hopes of spotting Evans’ sister.

Because Evans would never be stupid enough to expose herself to the Wizarding World when she is so evidentially trying to hide.

It explains why Kreacher had been unable to find any records of her being employed. Or even records of her NEWT scores. Evans has gone to ground and Regulus finds himself a niffler attempting to unearth diamonds. It’s not what he’s used to searching for, not the gold instincts drive him towards, he’s ill equipped… and he’s very irritated that this metaphor implies he’d be looking for Gryffindors instead of Hufflepuffs.

Though his sample size is small, he’s found badgers make far better company than lions.

“And you have no idea where she- where they are either, do you?” Jaw clenched, Regulus rises to his feet, brushing down his robes. The robes will have to go, come to think of it. He might not know where Poppy is, where Poppy is with this little ball of sunshine (he could kill her, of all the names she could pick she went for something as short and dull as ‘Sol’). But he knows someone who does.

 

 

 

 

Fast forwards twenty minutes, and he finds himself reevaluating his life choices.

Arm braced against the wall and cheekbone throbbing, Regulus draws in a long, deep breath.

It was only in Evans’ defence, he tells himself, defence she admittedly deserves.

Wiping his face in disgust will mean even less chance of him being informed as to Evans’ location. He must not react poorly.

Even if he has just been punched in the face.

He didn’t even have the decency to go for the same cheek as Aunt Cassiopeia.

“How dare you.”

“I haven’t even introduced myself.”

“You don’t need to. I know my daughter well, and I also know the amount of friends that she has had.”

“Friends?” Regulus repeats sceptically, but that is his downfall, brain catching up quickly but not quick enough.

Evans doesn’t have friends, ergo, a young male her age coming by asking after her; it makes it blatantly obvious who he is when her current condition (previous condition, given the birth of the child has occurred) is taken into account.

Damn.

If Evans is a winter-storm, then her father is the clouds that swirl, formless, meaningless without Evans herself present.

Regulus only takes note because the storm that has broken across the landscape of his life has come from this cloud.

Regardless, he’s utterly unimpressed with the muggle before him. Grandfather of his child or not.

“I didn’t know.”

“Were my daughter not so strong-minded, then I’d be far more pissed already.”

He’s got to give him credit though, the man has guts; he doesn’t so much as quake when Regulus points his wand at him.

The woman that could only be Evans’ mother stands behind her husband, a sternly worried frown on her face.

“But I’ve come to respect my children’s choice. Undoubtedly, that’s something you’ll have to learn for yourself.”

He can’t quite stop the grimace that’s prodded into existence from there and muggle Evans takes that as a win.

“Look, I’ve just found out that Ev- that Poppy,” -her forename tastes strange as it rolls from his tongue, stranger even than ‘Evans’ had been- “was pregnant. Our world isn’t exactly full of sunshine and unicorns right now and believe it or not, I’m dealing with some shit too.”

Muggle Evans scowls, the thunder Evans so often embodies gathering upon his face.

“We can give you the address,” Female Muggle Evans finally pipes in. “I may not trust you, but I trust our daughter, and her ability with those ward things.”

The implied ‘they’ll crisp you if you’re not there for what you say you are’ doesn’t go unnoticed and Regulus forces his numb lips to twist up into a smile, forces himself to cough up the most wooden thank you he has ever given in his life.

The doubts are back and once again Regulus wishes Evans’d had the decency to be born a half-blood at least. He doesn’t have the slightest idea how to make the muggles like him, short of barely legal (certainly not legal if used on a witch or wizard) spell work.

Even more of a conundrum; he’s not sure if he cares for them to approve of him either. Hell, his parents aren’t exactly going to approve of (or even tolerate) Evans, so why should he care for the opinion of her parents in return? He’s going to have enough of a job figuring out if he can make something with Evans work, nevermind everyone else that comes about as a result of her presence in his life.

It’s suddenly so much easier to recall why he wanted to put of this relationship thing for a decade or so, to consider it later.

But Regulus knows himself enough to realise he doesn’t want to let go of Evans. Child or not, this ‘Sol’ has just sped up the process, that’s all.

 

 

 

 


	16. Chapter 16

 

 

 

 

Something pings against her wards.

Poppy Evans frowns, teeth scraping across the flesh of her lip, thumb stroking across little Sol’s cheek.

It’s been five hours since Lily left for her own home, though not without having been sworn to temporary secrecy. It’s not exactly something she’ll be able to hide from Pot… from James and from Sirius when they inadvertently turn up to gawk, but it will give her a few hours of peace.

Lily had also promised that she would ensure the two numbskulls would be coming over at a reasonable time the next day, probably somewhere around evening.

Perhaps Remus might join them, but Poppy doesn’t find herself terribly close to the werewolf, nor (thankfully) has she found herself within the company of Peter Pettigrew more than once. That sole time she’d arrived at the Potter household and found him there, she’d turned right back around and walked out.

She knows the Marauders had simply shrugged and put it down to her weirdness, but the truth is, Poppy is honestly weighing the concept of Obliviate, Imperius or Avada Kedavra in a three-way duel of what option would be her best bet. Pettigrew couldn’t possibly be a Death Eater yet… there’s not been enough secrets let slip, the Order aren’t yet suspicious of a spy because they still welcome Remus (their prime suspect should such a thing come to light) with open arms.

Maybe Voldemort seeks the weak link out personally in the face of the prophecy. Maybe it goes down in some other way. Poppy’s not sure.

And in all honesty, it’s incredibly difficult to focus on much other than the tiny little life that blazes so brightly in her arms.

The wards ping again and Poppy scowls.

“Dolly? Who is that at the wards?”

Because to be present at the wards one has to know where her little house is, and to know that, someone must have blabbed.

“Miss Red, it be’s…” the little house elf trails off, her bulbous eyes flicking to Sol’s slumbering form and that’s all the implication Poppy needs.

“Take him to the nursery please, Dolly, and though I doubt it’ll come to it, if things go sour, take him to Lily for me?”

“Then Dolly’s be’s back to help youes.”

Somehow, Poppy manages a small, terrible brittle smile. It feels like frost upon her face and honestly, she dreads to think how it’d look.

How strange, a year ago this is exactly how she had felt going through the motions at Hogwarts; dragging her feet, slugging through the necessary motions the remain in that world, to have the access to all that magic. Magic that will keep both herself and her sister alive.

Regulus had been the escape back then, that little slice of her life that wasn’t dictated by what the future would bring. There’d been no strings attached, nothing that she could possibly pull on that would affect the tangled knotwork to come in a few years.

Only, there had been strings, and now they’re ironically tied together by blood, of all things. It’s unbelievable, especially given Regulus’ thoughts on the subject, but there’s no denying Sol’s existence.

There’s only two questions, how did Regulus find out, and why had he come to her, risking his rouse of being ‘dead’ in the process?

She shouldn’t feel nervous, it’s not exactly like she’s done anything wrong, but Poppy still palms her wand with a frown, eyeing the door to her bedroom. It’s not exactly like she can ignore him, meeting him on her own turf is probably for the best. Sucking in a deep breath, Poppy holds it tight within her chest, letting the new-baby smell that Sol is constantly surrounded with fill her senses.

Then she hands her tiny child to Dolly and makes for the hallway.

 

 

 

 

On the boundary of her ward lines, Regulus Black stands with a blank face, two bruised cheeks, and windswept hair.

 

 

 

 

Poppy’d had no idea just how damningly awkward this would be.

It’s been just short of ten months since they’d last seen one another; skin once perfectly pale now holds the slightest hint of tan, hair once perfectly coiffed now falls naturally tousled. It’s always been acknowledged that Sirius is the more attractive Black brother, but if Regulus continues this new trend of looking better each time she sees him, then perhaps what had once been a chasm of difference will soon become a small fissure.

The eyes are still the same though, that same intense, guarded grey that’s utterly focused upon her.

Neither of them have spoken a word, not since Poppy adjusted the wards to allow the Black entry.

She doesn’t make tea, doesn’t offer it. The little distractions like that have never come between the two of them before, it’d be stupid to start now. There’d never been a buffer when they collided, when one had pulled the other into a vacant classroom, into a dead-end corridor. It’d always been abrupt lightning sparking along a raw nerve, electric and painful.

But hell, had she never been more aware she was alive than in that moment.

It’s Regulus that breaks the silence, lips parting and jaw working once and he swallows, the dry sound echoing a moment before he speaks.

“He’s a half-blood. Riddle. The Dark Lord.”

His face scrunches up as he spits out that title, a grimace upon his face. Regulus’ hands are in his hair, elbows balanced upon his knees as he hunches forwards. Upon her comfortable sofa, surrounded by the backdrop of her Hufflepuff themed living room, he looks at home, if somewhat stressed.

Not that she’ll ever tell him that first bit.

He looks more at home than she’s felt in her entire life.

“I’m not a changed man, nor am I about to pretend I am. But Riddle- everything I’ve ever believed in has been proven wrong, and while I can’t promise a blank slate, I do want to try and draw my own conclusions.”

It goes unsaid that what his family have forced down his throat is clearly incorrect. That he’s reached a decisive moment in his life and been forced to face some hard truths.

Poppy can hear the undercurrent; if he’s going to fuck up this time, it’ll be because of his own decisions, not theirs.

It doesn’t mean Poppy is sitting here, suddenly determined to show Regulus the wonders of the muggle world. Both worlds have different environments, different inventions, but they’re unquestionably filled with disappointing people. There’s no shortage of greedy people ready to corrupt themselves for power.

Poppy isn’t exactly a good person herself, but it’s not power she wants.

In all honesty, she doesn’t know what she wants from life, beyond Lily alive and Sol healthy and happy.

But she’s not willing to risk Regulus slipping through her fingers before she’s figured out where he fits in. If he’s offering to try something here, could she do the same? It’s like she’s ever tried to play fair, not at any point in this life she’s got.

“You’re not just here for Sol?” Poppy asks and it’s the first time she’s said her son’s name aloud since announcing it to Lily.

Regulus’ jaw work again, the line a sharp relief against his neck.

“You should have told me.”

“You were in hiding.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

He’s remembering now, what exactly it was that drove him so damn crazy when it comes to Evans.

She’s undeniably stubborn, this ridiculous little creature that seems to believe she can take on the world alone, nothing but a wand and a house elf to aid her.

And a child to protect now.

Regulus hasn’t seen him yet, but he knows somewhere in this house is a little person he made (however unintentionally) with Evans.

Evans whose blue eyes sear like frostburn, no longer underlined by little puddles of dark skin. She must be sleeping better, even if her skin has become paler. She’s winter, all pale skin and frozen blue eyes, skin clear and glistening in the sun.

As usual, she doesn’t fit in with her environment, looking all too self-assured and out of place.

Before he’d just chalked it up to her status as a mudblood, had just decided she didn’t look like she belonged because she didn’t, because she was invading a world in which she had no place. But that’d never been true.

Even here, in the blatantly Hufflepuff surroundings, she’s spellfire in the dark, viciously vivid.

“So, what, are you attempting to offer starting a relationship?” Evans says, reclining back in her seat, the weight of her thoughts etched across her brow. One set of fingers drum against the arm of her chair, legs crossed as if she were sitting upon the floor instead of a large armchair.

The lack of proper posture has him wanting to twitch and Regulus has to push down the urge to snap at her for it.

“We have a child,” Regulus reminds her sternly, watching as Evans’ lips lift in a bitter, mocking smile.

“So? It’s not like he’ll be the first child born from parents not in a loving relationship.”

That’s one of the greatest truths that Regulus has heard in recent weeks. After all, his own parents had been pushed together for the good of the bloodline, they’d never even managed to become friends, barely tolerating one another.

Even this mess he’s had with Evans has more to it than that; he might have been disgusted in her background, in her bloodline, (it’s still not something he finds himself comfortable with, like the ice cold that comes with trying to climb a mountain) but Evans isn’t exactly all good and golden either. She’s only ever taken what she wanted from him, even if it had only ever been him.

They’d had little real consideration for one another and while Regulus has never seen a relationship not built upon the concept of blood and alliances, surely Evans should know better, should know what to look for.

Yet, she’d still gone chasing after this with him. Well, perhaps chasing is not the right word.

She’d still stumbled alongside into the same corridor, the one with the collapsed exit, even though she’d known it’d never go anywhere.

Only, here they are, each of them having no interest in anyone but the other and really, what else is there to do but try for a relationship? The things that’d been holding him back no longer matter, especially not given Sol’s very existence. His parents, the rest of the Black family cannot possibly be more enraged than they already would be; he might as well throw himself whole-heartedly into this.

“I don’t know how a loving relationship works, Evans. I’ve seen them from a distance, but...” but there’d always been something wrong with them, is what he mentally finishes with.

Like Potter and Evans’ older sister, they’d had so much history there, Potter always chasing after her and her rebuffing him yet, somehow, they’ve ended up married. It doesn’t make any sense to him; there’d been no advantages for Potter to gain, nothing but a tainted bloodline from a girl who had no interest in him, until suddenly she did.

There’d been a constant steadiness to their interaction though.

Unlike himself and Evans, every reaction between the two of them had been volatile, two inconstant elements exposed to one another.

“So, what? You just want a partnership, to work together and see where it goes from there?” The scepticism in her voice is strong, the doubt evident on her face as she eyes him.

But she’s not saying no, Regulus realises. He’d known from the second she permitted him entrance with the wards that she wouldn’t say no, but it is a relief to not hear the word. To know that tender side that’d been revealed to him only once before, when they’d laid side by side on those horrendous muggle bedsheets, still remains in that standoffish personality.

Why is it so hard to put all this into words? That they might not make the best pairing, that it won’t be constant happiness and Regulus is as sure they’ll continue to fight as he’s sure the sun rises in the east.

But that’s the romanticised ideal of life the general masses have dreamed up.

He doesn’t want that beautiful pureblood manor with the docile pureblood wife filled with pureblood children, Regulus realises.

He wants the torrid teal of Evans’ eyes when she looks at him, the scorching glares when they clash. He wants little Sol, halfblooded and full of such endless potential. It doesn’t matter if it’s a large manor house with sprawling grounds or a little cottage just like this; Evans never looks like she belongs in her surroundings anyway, always tempestuously filling the space with her sheer presence. Even in the distance she’s an impending storm, it’s something Regulus can see himself growing used to.

If his father can manage to put up with his mother, then surely what he and Evans have can evolve, can last. Because neither of them have stayed steady and set; Evans dropped out of Hogwarts and seems to have centred herself around family, not that Regulus can claim he knew her plans before.

His own mindset, what his parents insisted was the truth for so long, that’s all been shattered and here he is trying to build a new world from the pieces. Reassembling it bit by bit, until it resembles the globe it once was. Only the surface is littered with hundreds and thousands of fractures, no longer smooth. No longer pure and whole.

“How do I know this isn’t a lie?”

“I tried to kill Riddle recently,” Regulus confesses. No weight leaves his shoulders; Cassiopeia is already well aware of his failed attempted murder and he hadn’t expected owning up to Evans would put his mind at ease. It’s not so much his actions as his failure that weighs on him; that burden will no dissipate until the pretender is well and truly dead.

“You’re the reason he’s been tearing through the country, looking for his would-be assassin,” Evans concludes, having rose from the single chair she’d occupied to come stand before him. There’s no pride on her face, not like what he’d expect from Sirius.

Sirius who he likes to think would be so proud of him, for turning on the Dark Lord, for questioning everything their parents ever glorified. His older brother’d probably clap him on the back and say something ridiculous, like ‘better luck next time’. Once he got over his shock, that is.

Evans’ doesn’t look surprised though. If anything, she appears pensive, head tilted to a side and free red hair spilling down her shoulders.

It doesn’t take much for Regulus to reach out and take hold of her hips, firm but not grasping.

She lets him draw her close, until she’s sat straddled on his legs. With his back straight (correct seating posture at work), they’re on eyelevel, his thumb rubbing back and forth across the material of her far too large shirt. One of her hands cups his cheek and Regulus hisses at the contact, quite unable to remember if it was her relative or his that caused that bruise.

Her thumb presses a little more and Regulus responds in kind, his hold tightening.

“I hope you’re not expecting this to be something out of LaFolle’s Enchanted Encounters.”

“Ridiculous romance novels glamorised for public consumption,” Regulus mutters, lips tingling at the caress of each hot breath from Evans’ own mouth, mere inches from his. His hands slowly smooth down from the side of her hips, trailing along the outside of her thighs in what is perhaps the slowest touch he has ever graced her with.

“It’s not going to be perfect.”

“It’ll probably fall apart at some point,” Regulus agrees, feeling Evans’ fingers brush back and forth across his hairline. His hair is longer than he’s ever had it in his life, half curls crawling past his ears now.

Evans doesn’t seem to mind the change though.

“A sizable portion of my world view has been shattered, if I can rebuild that, I don’t think this muddling through this will be too difficult.”

Evans smiles and it’s real, a true curve that (while small) brightens her entire face.

He should probably kiss her, Regulus realises. He should probably take a moment to fully appreciate that smile.

But instead, he finds himself vocalising his main grievance.

“Why Sol, of all names? What possessed you?”

 

 

 


	17. Chapter 17

 

 

 

 

When Regulus sees Sol, he just breaks down laughing.

There’d been a tense moment where Poppy had just stared him the eye, daring Regulus to say one more word about her choice of name, and for once in his life, the Slytherin had wisely backed down from the argument with her. She’s well aware it wasn’t out of any desire to allow her the ‘win’ of this argument (if anything, she’s relatively sure that they’ll be coming back to it at some point in the future) but to actual to see the source of Regulus’ issue with his own eyes.

Though she doesn’t have the slightest idea why he’s laughing like a deranged maniac right now. Maybe that potion has more than one side effect, Poppy thinks, eyeing him warily.

“A… metamorphmagus,” Regulus finally manages to cough out, half leaning against the doorframe.

He turns to look at her now, something like pride in his eyes. Satisfaction, maybe? Gratification? It’s like a spring shower, each individual raindrop dripped in sunlight until they’re gleaming, a rainbow of brightness so rarely brought about in the rain.

Laid in his cot, Sol has attempted turning his head towards them, the source of the sound, and she knows he will recognise her voice.

“Hey, baby boy,” Poppy whispers, gliding across the room to her little boy’s side.

Sol blinks, eyes a little crossed as he struggles to focus.

Placing her little finger against his palm, Poppy smiles as those tiny digits close up around the offering. There’s certainly no fault in his grasping reflect, that’s for sure.

“You can come over and say hi,” Poppy murmurs, refusing to tear her eyes away from the tiny little being that is now the centre of her heliosphere, the very core of what her entire life will now revolve around.

She doesn’t know how Regulus will really respond to Sol; it’s not like they’d gotten much chance to discuss him while they were downstairs. And like hell is she spending her baby’s precious few hours away to talk to Regulus. She might be open to the concept of a relationship (whatever kind of relationship that ends up being, well, they will see), but he comes second to Sol.

“It’s not like he will be able to comprehend what I’m saying to him,” Regulus objects, even as he moves closer, until he’s standing right beside her.

“Not right now, but he’ll hear your voice and come to familiarise himself with it… you are planning on-”

“Of course, I’m planning on sticking around,” Regulus snaps and the glare he sends her is glacial.

Challengingly, Poppy wiggles her finger free of Sol’s grasp, turning her contesting gaze on Regulus.

He falters slightly, staring down at Sol with that same face Pot- James had gotten when he realised he had no idea how to handle interacting with a pregnant woman. But that determined set to his jaw is quick to form, that same stubborn look he got whenever their eyes would meet across the Great Hall before he’d turn away from her.

This time, he steps a little closer, just so that he can reach out and run the tips of his fingers across the ever-changing tuffs of hair that top Sol’s head. Just like that, his entire expression softens, near wonderment lighting his eyes. Soon enough, Regulus’ finger is the one in Sol’s hand, her darling little boy peering up with lilac eyes.

Planting her hand on the back of Regulus’ head, Poppy shoves him forwards, until his face is only a couple of inches from Sol’s.

“Evans! What-”

“He can’t see very far, it’s a newborn thing. At least now he’ll be able to sort of see you.” A baby’s vision is, after all, very poor.

She’s aware she should probably give Regulus some distance, she thinks it must be a very self-conscious thing, to be suddenly presented with a baby you’re supposed to interact with. But… she just can’t.

It doesn’t matter that she’s had two uninterrupted days, doesn’t matter that she should afford Regulus even just a moment of time. She cannot drum up the courage to step away.

Because this little interaction, it’s like nothing she’s ever seen from Regulus. It’d always been biting words, sharp slurs and even sharper teeth between them. There’d been so very few soft interactions. That one moment when they’d laid upon her bed, looking at one another; he’d looked so lovely in that moment.

It pales in comparison to what she’s witnessing now.

“Your mother gave you a terrible name.” And of course, those were his first words to their child. Of course.

Scowling, Poppy fires a stinging hex at Regulus, delighting in the way he jolts slightly and twists to glare at her.

“She’s also the only one of your relatives to use magic to hit me,” Regulus grumbles, smoothing his hair back from his face with a scowl, which only brings the growing bruise on his face into sharp contrast. He might have more of a tan than when they’d last seen one another, but he’s still got a pale pallet.

“Who graced you with those anyway?” Poppy asks, head tilting to a side as she tries to consider just which Black would have smacked Regulus. And what for.

The wizard rolls his eyes skywards, chancing another quick glance at her before his attention is once again pulled back to Sol.

“Aunt Cassiopeia gave be the bruise with the cut,” he admits, gesturing to the thin red line that fractures across his cheekbone. “The other was complements of your father.” Oh.

That explains how Regulus knew were she was at least.

“You didn’t curse him, did you?”

“Of course not.”

Ignoring the pureblood’s scoffing, Poppy returns to the crib, carefully picking Sol up.

“Well, I hope you’ve had your fun with quiet little Sol, because that’s not going to last in the face of tummy time.”

The mystification on Regulus’ face shows exactly how much knowledge he has on babies and their need for ‘tummy time’.

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

His tiny son rests on a floating blanket, charmed see through with his features scrunched up in displeasure. At least he has stopped crying now.

Evans’ has laid herself on the floor of her living room, head cushioned by one of the obnoxiously Hufflepuff yellow pillows, smiling up at Sol.

Sol, their son who floats above her and is trying (valiantly but fruitlessly) to remain focused on Evans.

It is with only the slightest bit of hesitancy that he lays besides Evans, close enough that their arms brush against one another, close enough that Sol’s now orange eyes flick over to ineffectively attempt looking at him instead. Evans’ has a house elf, Regulus recalls. It certainly explains the lack of muggle ‘freshener’; it’s just a house-elf clean smell in here and that is familiar to him.

What isn’t familiar is the look upon Evans’ face.

She’s utterly focused upon Sol, and all those rigorously maintained defences are all down; the knight that cut so harshly with words made of steel, the archer that fired those oh so sharp glares with pinpoint accuracy, those impenetrable battlements that stood unbreakable in the face of every attack, they’re all gone.

Now there’s no castle to defend, he’s found himself within and Evans lays here like a dragon would, the protective bulk of her magic curling around the room, shielding her hoard. Perhaps he should feel flattered that he’s been allowed in at all.

Or perhaps he has somehow become a part of the hoard.

“And this prompts crawling?”

“Along with other motions,” Evans confirms, tilting her head to a side to look at him, even as her fingers continue to dance before Sol’s face.

He still looks highly unimpressed at his current predicament, but has yet to return to tears. Tears and screaming. He makes an incredible amount of noise for such a tiny little thing… like a mandrake. Only his cry is unlikely to knock Regulus out. He says unlikely because who knows with accidental magic? In the very least, he knows without a shadow of a doubt that his child is no squib, that much is painfully obvious.

The constant shift in Sol’s colours, his hair and his eyes, it’s such a free showcase of instinctive magic that Regulus feels pride swelling behind his breastbone. It’s a strange sensation, being proud of something other than his own achievements.

But, now facing this harsh reality with open eyes, he can admit to having little to be proud of. Sol (as terribly bland as the name may be), well, Sol is something pure, something good. A bright little light in this sudden dark uncertainty he’s found himself in.

Because, what is left in this world for Regulus to do once he has offed the Dark Lord? What ambitions can he set his sights upon now? His world view has changed so very much in the face of such hard truths, that the greatest wizards of their time have all bee half-bloods. Bringing glory and wealth to the Black Family seems so very… insufficient now.

Anyway, it’s not exactly like they’ll be welcoming him back with open arms when he steps forwards with a half-blood child.

He has no intentions of giving Sol up. Even now, looking up his scrunched-up face, still that unfortunate state of wrinkled squishiness, Regulus knows he would never be able to walk away. That is his son, and true to his pampered upbringing, he’s not really one to leave something that belongs to him behind.

He was raised to take good care of his things, thank you very much.

But that just brings him to another issue.

With Evans, the draw between them had always been about how they could ruin one another, how they could taint each other. That’d been the core from which their interactions had bloomed; how are they supposed to make this work once that essential piece is stripped away?

Because they have already changed; they’re contaminated beyond what could be cleansed now. Completed art suddenly drawn over. Something he would have found… not ugly, but certainly not appealing a year prior.

Now however, he stands back from the former masterpiece, a white paintbrush in hand and a freshly made blank canvas before him, attempting to ignore the former image that seeps through the recently added layer. There’s no ignoring their past, that much is obvious. It’s going to bleed through in their every interaction, it’s happened already. He’d scoffed at Sol’s name and the look he’d gotten from Evans was scorching.

Yet, here they both lay, side by side, arms brushing against one another every time they breathe.

“I’d appreciate it if you stopped making me feel awkward in my own home.”

Shooting a scratching glare at the woman, Regulus sits himself up, daring to take Sol into his arms out of his own initiative.

His son nestles into the crook of his elbow and after a brief moment, his face falls into a picturesque example of pleasure, eyes fluttering closed and little lips smacking several times until he succumbs to slumber. Cross-legged on the floor of Evans’ home, it’s almost possibly to ignore how blatantly Hufflepuff his surroundings are.

“Don’t think that just because you can get him to sleep so easily that you’ll be some kind of wonder parent.”

“Of course I’m not thinking that,” Regulus snaps, despite that very thought crossing his mind a mere moment before she spoke,” and I’m not trying to make you uncomfortable in your incredibly Hufflepuff surroundings.”

Evans snorts, poking him in the cheek with one finger and Regulus pushes down the children urge to bite the offending digit.

“We’re trying to make something work, a relationship in which our usual interactions of ‘take and run’ just won’t cut it. You’d be stupid to believe it’s not going to be discomforting for a while.”

Pale skin tightens around blue eyes for a second, but then Evans coincides with a nod, rolling up into a kneeling position. She presses a kiss to his cheek, the gesture too quick for Regulus to formulate a response to before it’s over.

“Put Sol to sleep and you can stay the night, but don’t expect to be moving in any time soon.”

“Like I’d want to sleep in this badger-den anyway,” Regulus bites back, amusement tugging at the corner of his lips and he can see the same little humour-formed dimples cresting on Evans’ cheeks too.

 

 

 

 


	18. Chapter 18

 

 

 

 

 

It is exceptionally strange, waking up to find company in her bed. Company not of the baby variety.

She hasn’t exactly grown use to Sol’s existence outside of her stomach quite yet, nevermind his very irritating father and his sudden presence in her life.

Stretching out her legs beneath the covers, Poppy’s toes brush up against the tops of Regulus’ feet, the pureblood grumbling into his pillow and attempting to shuffle free of the contact. He’s still fast asleep, clutching at the pillow as if it’s a lifeline. Honestly, she’s just glad they didn’t wake up clinging to one another. Child or not, that’d have been awkward.

It’s not like there’s been a whole slew of intimate moments between them to cushion such a thing. Well, emotionally intimate moments that is.

Despite how honest they’d been with one another, and despite the attraction they share for one another… they’re not exactly emotionally close, are they?

Lying back in the soft fabrics, Poppy traces the sharp angle of Regulus’ jawline, taking note of the dark hair that falls before his ear. There’s not a lot, but the half curls are longer than she’s seen them before, without the usual product (be it spells or potions) that usually keep it effortlessly styled. It looks good on him, natural. Like he’s not even trying.

Hiding that simmering emotion away in the little smile on her lips, Poppy tucks a rebellious lock back behind Regulus’ ear, watching the skin upon his brow bunch together, eyebrows pressing down hard as his frown deepens. Of course, even in his sleep he’d frown at her; she’d touched his hair after all.

Huffing, Poppy forces herself into motion, turning to the side of the bed where Sol slumbers away.

She’d made no comment when Regulus had brought the little Moses basket into her room, their little child tucked gently inside.

A quick look shows that Dolly has been by twice in the night, ensuring Sol’s been fed. Which means she can leave him here in Regulus’ care and start getting ready for another busy day of caring for an infant. And plotting Voldemort’s downfall. Hopefully she’ll actually make some progress on the latter.

A smooth flick of her wand summons the dressing gown from the wall and she’s quick to pull the material on, sinking into the soft fluff.

At the door to her bedroom, Poppy pauses, turning back to get a better look at the man sleeping on her bed. He’s kicked the covers down until they drape across his waist, leaving his naked upper half exposed. Her eyes linger on the bold stain of the Dark Mark, her teeth grinding at the very sight.

Then again, one cannot attempt to blow Voldemort up and still claim any form of allegiance to that mark. She wonders if Regulus has managed to block the connection it forms, or if that’s something he’s gone to his Aunt for help with.

Sucking in her lower lip, the redhead throws her hands up in the air, striding back across the room and gently lifting Sol into her arms, only to deposit him on the bed by Regulus. Some quick spell-work ensures the Slytherin won’t roll onto the little tyke, nor that Sol will somehow manage to miraculously wiggle his way off the bed.

Glancing down at the two, Poppy sighs, sitting herself back down upon the bed, her fingers smoothing first Sol’s fine baby-hair and then, after a moment of hesitation, Regulus’ too.

They both frown in their sleep. Is it wrong of her to be upset by that? To know Regulus shares something like that with her gorgeous little baby?

She shouldn’t- Poppy knows she shouldn’t be jealous, but she cannot help it.

Lying side by side, even with the colouring issue, it’s so abundantly clear that Regulus and Sol are father and son.

There’s just something about them; like calling to like, perhaps? Both bright constellations; Regulus a fierce blaze so very distant, Sol so blindingly beautiful and the closest star she can reach.

Poppy peppers a kiss to Sol’s forehead and leaves it at that.

She might… feel something for Regulus, but she sure as hell isn’t at the tenderly-kissing-his-forehead-as-he-sleeps stage yet.

 

 

 

 

Making breakfast is easy.

Making the decision to cook for two people significantly harder.

She does it though, puts the second portion under a stasis charm and then meanders into the living room, intent upon continuing to figure out a way to off Voldemort.

She’s utterly forgotten that she’s no longer a hermit, that there’s going to be people checking up on her.

In her defence, Poppy thinks it’s Bathilda at the door.

The six-foot-one, broad shouldered frame that she finds upon opening the door is near dwarfed by the presents they’re carrying, but there’s no way in hell that it’s her mentor on all things history.

“Hey, Pop. I hear that there’s congratulations for a baby boy in order?”

"Ah, er, James… good morning?"

Peeking around his obnoxiously large collection of presents, James Potter grins at her, an expression that only brightens as he takes in her much smaller form.

Quickly scanning the surrounding area yields no results as to why it is James alone on her doorstep. A James with no Lily to restrain his reaction whatsoever.

"Oh, right. Something came up and it was supposed to be me and Lils that went but Sirius volunteered to go in my place. Let me get to know my nephew and all."

He grins, sheepish and pleased and Poppy's has a heavy stone sitting in her stomach right now.

Technically, Sol is more Sirius' nephew than James. Never mind that she has Regulus passed out upstairs.

Well, small mercies; at least Sirius isn't here.

"Okay. You wanna come in? I'll make some tea."

James grimaces at the drink on offer but Poppy ignores it by sheer principle alone. Honestly, a grown English man disliking tea.

Then again, she does have a rather big bombshell to drop on him... maybe it's in her best interests that she caters to James' beverage preference, just this once.

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

A screaming baby is not the way Regulus had been expecting to wake up.

One would think that sleeping in bed with a lover beside him would mean a far more pleasant wake up call. But alas, here he is.

In truth, he'd probably been a fair bit too optimistic on a pleasant wake-up call from Evans, but it has been so long; no one else has ever gotten to him quite like Evans. They fight like, well, a Slytherin and Gryffindor. Urgh.

Scooping Sol up into his arms, Regulus takes a moment to marvel at that tiny little face, features hidden beneath the thick layer of baby fat. Perhaps he'll never know if Sol will have his high cheekbones, if he'll ever have the fierce curve of Evans' eyebrows. Maybe his ability will never allow such a thing.

That, that is a bit saddening to think about.

It's much easier to be irritated with Evans for leaving this little wakeup call right by him on the bed. Waking up to Evans' sleeping face would've been far less unpleasant than the scrunched up, almost-alien features his baby has right now.

Perhaps he should be worried that the red skin and tear-stricken cheeks don't put him off, that it just fills him with a fondness he would have never thought himself capable of experiencing.

 After all, being raised by Walburga and Orion Black doesn't exactly instil one with those fluffy, bubbly emotions the Gryffs and Puffs so adore.

"Would the guest bes wanting to feeds little Master?"

Evans' house elf (at least she's doing something right here) appears with a sly smile and bottle of milk.

A little disgruntled over being addressed as something as lowly 'the guest', Regulus accepts the offering, adjusting Sol until he's cradled within one arm. The concept seems simple enough, but... this is his son. His precious firstborn.

Regulus cannot afford to get anything wrong here.

"Would you walk me through this, Dolly?"

 

 

 

 

With Sol fed and slumbering contently within his arms, it's high time he gets some food for himself. Regulus opens the hallway door, only to find James Potter of all people sat in Evans’ living room, a wrapped present situated upon his lap and many more crowding his feet. Is it too late to go back upstairs? Probably.

The second Potter's eyes land upon Regulus, he leaps from his contentment and his seat.

“By all accounts, return to lounging about the place, Potter,” Regulus mutters, doing his upmost best to ignore how the pureblood scrambles for his wand, his wide hazel eyes nervous and locked upon him.

He’s not unaware of how he shifts his body, curls his torso ever so slightly to a side, providing a better shield for the small infant nestled within his arms; it’s almost terrifying to realise just how quickly he has come to consider Sol his to protect. He thought the bonding would take a little longer than this. But then again, Regulus has always been rather possessive of what is his.

Funnily enough, the spellfire he's expecting never comes.

Potter has… matured. What an uncomfortable realisation.

"I knew there was a reason you gave me pumpkin juice!" Potter suddenly declares, swinging around to scowl at Evans.

The redhead (Merlin, what is he supposed to call her now? His girlfriend? His lover? Urgh) is perched upon the sofa, that same no-nonsense attitude as always wrapped effortlessly around her form. She considers Potter with icy blue eyes, expression giving away nothing at all. And then, ever so dryly, she spreads her arms wide, as if giving up the pretence and welcoming Potter into the big secret.

"Surprise. Black and I have had a thing for a few years."

Unsurprisingly, Potter chokes, staring between the two of them with wide, disbelieving eyes.

Then of course, despite Regulus best unconscious efforts, he notices Sol.

"Oh bloody Merlin, you're not lying."

"I just-" he cuts himself off, running one hand through his hair as the unsupported present drops from his lap. Yes, there's no way Regulus is allowing this fool to hold his child.

Potter stares between the two of them, jaw working wordlessly, and Regulus waits for it. Waits for the moment Potter denounces Evans for her association with him, waits for the hothead to leap to his feet. Hell, he’s prepared for a prank spell (because Potter might be a fool, but even he wouldn’t allow an innocent child to be endangered by his spell-work).

Only, it never comes.

Instead, Potter runs both hands through his hair again, nearly dislodging his glasses from his nose, but he doesn’t act brashly. He inhales once, sharp and short, before exhaling far longer than should be possible.

“Okay. Right. You’re gonna have to explain this to me. Because I thought you-” a finger is pointed in Regulus’ direction, harsh and accusing, “-were a Death Eater. So, how- what possessed- just, how did this happen?”

Gesturing wordlessly between them, Potter, runs a hand down his face, eyes round as a bludger.

“And good Godric, does Lily know?”

“Lily found out when I popped sunshine out over there,” Evans mutters, waving a hand towards Regulus and he grits his teeth. He might have to put up with his firstborn being called Sol, but his child sure as hell won’t suffer a degrading nickname like that.

“I was a Death Eater, Potter. Funnily enough, belief in the cause tends to wither when you find out the Dark Lord is a half-blood.”

In true Evans style, the mother of his child just cannot let it go without a little dry comment of, “disillusioned enough to try blowing up said half-blood.”

Scowling, Regulus cocks his head back towards her, carefully adjusting his grip on Sol until the tiny human is resting against his chest, face pressing into the crook of his neck and with butterfly breaths ghosting over Regulus’ skin.

“What part of ‘in hiding, faking my own death, do you not understand?” he hisses, one hand supporting Sol, the other gently running up and down the baby’s back, touch feather light. Because fuck, what if he hurts him? He has no idea how much pressure a baby can handle, he knows practically nothing of babies, so gentle as possible it is.

“Oh, for god’s sake, James’ hardly gonna rat you out, is he?”

“Then you’ll feel completely comfortable talking about our last meeting?”

Evans’ mouth shuts with an audible snap, disgruntled fury in the sharp lines of her eyebrows and mouth. That is something he still needs answers from; how had she known where that cave was? How had she known what was inside it? He wants to push; the chains of that life debt tighten hard around his chest and leave Regulus hastily sucking in more air. The sharp warning is more than enough to derail that train of thought. Of course, Potter’s right here. He cannot goad Evans into explaining right now. Irritating.

“For Merlin’s sakes, you two better explain what the hell is going on- fuck it, I can’t believe I’m here talking to Sirius’ supposed to be dead little brother. I need a drink.”

“I was pregnant; there’s no alcohol in this house.” The look with which Potter graces Evans with is drier than anything Regulus would have ever thought him capable of.

“I am going back to my house. I am going to get a large bottle of firewhiskey, which I will not be sharing. By the time I get back, you two better be able to explain what the hell is going on here, or I’m telling Lily and Sirius the second they get back.”

 

 

 

 


	19. Chapter 19

 

 

 

 

 

Giving James the rundown of the situation (minus the horcrux thing) is… uncomfortable. She’d been expecting a refusal to meet her eyes, but it is quite the opposite.

James holds eye-contact with her the entire time and the… apathetic way he listens has Poppy squirming in her seat, even if only slightly.

By god, how had James Potter of all people managed to copy McGonagall’s favourite ‘not-quite-disapproving-but-certainly-not-pleased’ look? It’s ridiculous.

What’s even more ridiculous is just how… maturely James is handling this. Hell, Lily had more of a blow up than her brother-in-law, and quite frankly that’s scaring Poppy.

“Right… Right… so, you left the Death Eaters because You-Know-Who is a, a half-blood,” James mutters to himself, one hand rubbing at his temples, the other reaching for the alcohol he had indeed returned him. He’s already drained his first glass; hadn’t even flinched as he’d necked it.

Sharing a quick glance with Regulus (and concluding he’s as uncomfortable as she is regarding this sensible Potter), Poppy’s hands work over the cushion at her ride, just for something to do. Regulus still hasn’t sat down, though in the very least he’s walked fulling into the room.

Within his arms, Sol has adopted a silver sheen for his hair colour, one little fist curled up in Regulus’ sleeve; Poppy’s heart gives a painful throb. It does that sometimes now, whenever Sol does something particularly cute, whenever the realisation hits that there’s gonna be even more people wanting to hold her baby.

“Do you plan on sharing any of that, Potter.”

Regulus’ sharp eyes are mocking, focused solely on the half empty bottle in James’ hands.

The scent of alcohol is starting to linger in the air now; Poppy’s nose wrinkles, lips set into a firm grimace.

“No, former Death Eater or not, idiots that knock up my sister-in-law don’t get to share my booze,” James hisses, tightening his grip on the bottle neck, the amber liquid within sloshing around. “Certainly, there’s to be no drinking if you’re insisting on holding Sol,” Poppy mutters bitterly; she’s already given three subtle hints that she wants her baby back in her arms and though Regulus has seen every one of them, he’s not complied with her silent demands.

And he had seen her; he’s smirked at every last unsaid order before proceeding to blatantly ignore her.

Bastard.

“I’m not interested in your cheap liquor,” Regulus snaps, stalking over and presenting her with Sol.

Opposed to his short, harsh steps, he holds her baby out with careful hands and soft movements; Poppy eagerly takes him back. It doesn’t matter that Regulus probably just wants his hands free in case he needs to deal with a drunken James. Doesn’t matter that out of the two of them, Poppy would probably be the one less likely to deal out a harsh punishment in the Gryffindor lets the liquor go to his head. Probably… if he endangers Sol, then all bets are off.

“You’re doubting my ability to hold my drink, aren’t you?” James grumbles with narrowed eyes, no worse off for all the alcohol he’s soaked up.

Grimacing slightly, Poppy adjusts her hold upon Sol, allowing her tiny little offspring to rest his tiny little head against the crook of her neck.

James’ eyes linger on his hidden face, whisking over the baby-fine hair with a wistful gleam- Oh.

Of course. It won’t be long until her darling future nephew is born. But then again, Harry’s birth solidifies Lily’s position as Voldemort’s ‘undesirable number one’. Is she willing to try and subvert the birth of Harry James Potter in favour of keeping her sister alive? A fleeting concept of a character or her flesh and blood sister?

When put like that, the answer is obvious.

“Don’t even think about it. One Evans kid is enough right now.”

“Black.”

Jolting, Poppy whips her head around to lock eyes with Regulus, silver to sapphire.

“Excuse you?”

“He’s a Black,” Regulus says, a decisive ‘don’t fight me on this’ filling his tone. It’s the same tone that has always had Poppy squaring her jaw, setting her shoulders straight and proud. It’s the rumble of clouds, the warning prior to a downpour, a deluge.

But Poppy has never had trouble weathering the storm before.

“By blood, maybe. But I birthed him, he’s mine, so he’s got my name.”

“He’s mine too.”

“So?”

“So, he’s my heir,” Regulus stresses, stalking closer and Poppy rises to meet him, arms curling that little bit more around Sol, body angling so her unoccupied shoulder is closer to the Slytherin.

“His birth certificate says Sol Evans.”

“You’ve already given him two awful names, the least you could do is given him a redeeming family name.”

“What the hell is wrong with Evans as a surname,” Poppy hisses, voice low even as her face twists into a snarl, daring him to answer.

“Hey, you two should-”

“Shut up, Potter!”

Her lips don’t twitch, they don’t.

Regulus’ mouth remains a firm line, even as his eyes glint, darkly amused by their joint demand. At her neck, Sol whines and Poppy instantly forgets the fool in front of her, turning her attention to her little sun.

“Aw, did the big mean Gryffindor startle you, baby?”

“If you can’t be sensible then get out, Potter.”

“It’s not even your house to kick me out of,” James grunts, rising to his feet regardless and cautiously making his way over. She can see Regulus tense from the corner of her eye, but Poppy’s used to James now, even if she hadn’t exactly wanted to be in the beginning. Or even now.

She’s particularly wary when he reaches out to gently stroke at Sol’s cheek; she allows the contact though. He is, after all, Sol’s uncle now.

As is Sirius Black. God, that’s horrible to think about. Those two terrible influences in a position of ‘trust’. Sol’s time with the duo will be short and sweet. He can bleed them for extravagant birthday gifts and then send them on their way.

“Right. Right.”

Hand running through his hair, James drags his palm down the side of his face, expression tired.

“I won’t tell Sirius. You two can handle that clusterfuck. Just- Just get your shit together, don’t drag Lily into anything, and Black, you better have turned your back on that Dark Lout, because if you’re fucking around with my little sister here, you’ll have me to worry about.”

Looking between the two of them, James Potter offers a grin that’s somehow even more threatening than his words, leaving them standing amidst brightly wrapped gifts and awkward silence.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

Standing at the window, gazing out into the distant, night-shrouded street, Poppy Evans looks like every novella hero he’d ever read about pre-Hogwarts.

Well, if she weren’t female. Or a Mud- Muggleborn. No, it still doesn’t fit, still seems too banal a term for the woman before him. Fresh-blood? New-blood? Who knows, he’ll figure it out later.

Maybe he’ll never figure it out at all. It’s best to not stick a label upon Evans; were he to do so, it’d seem to imply that there were others who could ever be classified alongside Evans. Snob he may be, but there will never be another like Evans. He wouldn’t have been so drawn to her if that were the case. No, he’s not being voluntarily blind, it’s the truth. A truth he’ll never admit aloud, but truth all the same.

She’s not put Sol down yet, or at least, not in a moment where he’d have been able to pick his baby up… their baby. It grates, acknowledging he’s sharing something with her, even if it is the child they’d both had an equal hand in (accidentally) creating.

Which brings him to his current conundrum. Or, several such things that all interlink.

Issue one, the one that (while not significantly important to the general state of things) grates on his nerves; Sol does not carry his last name. The birth certificate is already signed and sealed, sent off with the declaration of a father left blank for the world to wonder, for the paper to be slotted into the Ministry archives by some guppy who has no idea that he’s handling the new heir Black’s first official paperwork.

Sol Lilium Evans.

Horrific, especially if his little child follows in the footsteps of every Black ever (no, Sirius doesn’t count) and ends up in Slytherin.

Regulus has seen what happens to those unfortunate children that do not possess the shield that is an important family name. It’s not pretty, and while some do prove their worth, they rise to the top after a long and bloodied battle. Something their child can avoid if she’d just allow him to give Sol his birthright.

But the only way to single-handedly change that paperwork is for Regulus himself to go in and publicly claim Sol as his own. Which goes against every fibre in Regulus’ body right now; he’s ‘dead’ after all. For both the safety of himself and anyone he has ever associated with.

Including the mother of his child. The mother of his child who is ridiculously stubborn and would never agree to the plan that’s spinning around in Regulus’ head, no matter how convenient his idea may be.

Because she’s ridiculous enough to turn down a proposal, to turn down all the protection and benefits the Black name could offer her… if one discounts how damningly murderous his family would probably be in the beginning. They’d get over it.

Eventually.

It would make things so much easier; a ritual of marriage performed correctly would automatically change not only her name, but Sol’s as well. All without Regulus having to show his face. Besides, who would be curious enough to look at the official paperwork of a baby born to a mu… to a non-pureblood?

At the bottom line… he just can’t keep calling her Evans. Not when he’s determined to remove that stain from Sol and… Poppy’s identity.

They’re in a relationship; marriage is obviously the next step. But he doesn’t doubt she’ll complain, she’ll deny, and she’ll refuse. Because in her world, marriage is based more upon love than alliance, on partnership and a united front.

He’ll set the idea aside for now.

Instead, they need to deal with the most pressing matter; his ingrate of a brother.

“We need to discuss Sirius,” Regulus begins and no matter how he tries to wrap his lips around it, the sound of his brother’s name just scrapes at the edges of his mind.

“We can avoid him for another day; leave a note saying Sol’s getting introduced to his family.”

“Excellent, Aunt Cassiopeia will surely want to see him.”

The look he gets from her, thrown over one baby occupied shoulder, scorches.

“I was talking about my parents.”

“He’s my son, he should be introduced to my side of the family first.”

“And why is that,” Evans (because she’s Evans right now, his Hufflepuff nemesis and not Poppy, irritating epicentre of his softer thoughts) hisses. It is in no way a question.

“Well obviously Black influence will be prevalent in Sol’s life.” How is that not blatantly obvious? His family is magical, and barring her irritating sister, hers is not.

“My parents aren’t likely to murder him on the spot for being a half-blood stain on the lineage.”

“Because death by accidental magic when you leave him with incapable muggles is so much better.”

The next thing Regulus knows is that he’s tumbling out of the bedroom door arse over elbow into the hallway, thrown out by Evans’ banishing charm and unable to defend himself because she’s holding Sol.

The finality of the door slamming shut shows exactly how welcome he is right now and Regulus huffs.

Have they even managed two whole days in each other’s company? Certainly, it’s the longest they’ve ever managed to tolerate each other, that’s for sure.

The bedroom door opens for a split second, a pillow and blanket slamming into his chest in a silent message. He might be barred for her room, but she’s not kicking him out the house yet; not kicking him to the gutter just yet. By Merlin, if she weren’t holding Sol hostage he’d be the one kicking her to the wayside… and Salazar damn it, even in his head that doesn’t sound the truthful in the slightest.

“Throwing me out doesn’t mean you’ve won, Dear.”

He wishes he could see her face, wishes he could see her reaction. But if she’s going to play the scorned wife, then he’s sure as Merlin going to throw her behaviour back in her face with a sarcastic endearment.

However, he’s not about to degrade himself by sleeping on the couch as she wants. Not when he has a perfectly good bed (a better bed than what she has) waiting for him back at the safehouse.


	20. Chapter 20

 

 

 

The couch is empty, not that she’d been expecting it to be occupied. Regulus is, after all, far too… snobby for that.

Still, a part of her had, had hoped? No, that can’t be right. There’s a relief; he’s not here to take Sol’s attention right now, nor to be a pain in the ass in general.

That doesn’t change the fact they need to have a little sit down and discuss their Dark Lord problem. It’s kind of a big issue; Regulus is in hiding because of the madman and Poppy has zero intentions of allowing Sol to grow up in a world at war. They need to get rid of Voldemort, even if only temporarily. Before he can go after her precious sister; he needs to be gone before the bastard finds out about Sol. And in the kind of time frame she has, though she hates to admit it, Poppy needs help.

Luckily enough, Regulus seems almost as determined as she is to do Voldemort in. It’s just difficult to talk to him if he’s not here.

 

Bouncing Sol ever so slowly in her arms, Poppy makes her way down the stairs, mind still turning over and over again. It’s raining outside, fat droplets slamming against the windows. Autumn still lingers in the atmosphere, refusing to allow winter to begin misting the air. It’s Regulus’ weather.

He used to go out and fly in this weather; they’d crossed paths every once in a while as he was trudging back into the castle, quidditch robes plastered to his form and eyes bright with the exhilaration flight inspires in him. The kind of energy she had only ever been able to get from the potions that follow an all-night bender of hard studying. She has no idea why he even likes flying (nevermind in such atrocious weather) but there’d always been something… raw about fresh from practice Regulus. Something that’d make her stop by the railings of the grand staircases, books clutched to her chest as he passed by beneath, hair at saturation point and shimmering with the water it holds, a broom idly cocked over his shoulder.

He always has reminded her of a rainstorm. Perhaps she’d been so captivated during those moments because he had looked the part.

Snorting at the very thought, Poppy gently lays her little baby on the sofa, smiling at the tiny eyelids that flutter as Sol dreams. He’s lost all that nasty wrinkly skin now, replaced with the flushed texture that all adorable babies have. Cute as a button.

Smoothing down the dark strands of hair (navy or indigo, maybe even a shade somewhere between the two), Poppy summons Dolly with a soft call of the house-elf’s name.

“Could you find a way to get into contact with Regulus, please? Tell him we need to talk about our future plans.” It’s obvious they’re going to have to work together at some point, and it’ll be better to start now rather than later. Hell, knowing how their luck works, they’ll probably get caught in each other’s attempts. That is something that needs to be avoided at all costs.

And she also needs to get the bullshit that is dropping the ‘uncle’ bomb on Sirius out of the way. In fact, probably best to do that with Regulus absent.

When he’s gone, it’s possible to set aside the strange feeling in her chest, the emotions that make her ribs feel a little less empty. When he’s gone, the warmth that blooms there is absent, as if he’s plucked the petals from the stem with each step he takes away from her. She’ll never be hollow, Sol occupies far too much of her life for that, to the point she’s surprised there’s even enough space vacant for Regulus to fill. Perhaps even more absurd is the fact she doesn’t begrudge him that small space.

After leaving Hogwarts, coming to terms with the fact she’d soon be responsible for a tiny little human who could do nothing for themselves… she’d been forced to do a fair amount of self-reflection. It’s like she had admitted to Lily; there might not have been love between herself and Regulus, but there had been (and still was) a strange form of fascination with each other. A gravity to the other than they’d been susceptible to.

They should have been Mercury and Neptune, two planets that are as far apart as could be while still orbiting the same sun. Well, it’s not like Regulus is named for a planet, thank god. She’d never have been able to take him seriously if that were the case.

Yet, what they are going to attempt, premeditated murder… it is serious business. They need to talk, need to plan, and as much as she hates to admit it, two heads are better than one in this case. Poppy’s creative, but she’s never had to come up with a murder attempt against the most dangerous wizard of all time.

Regulus, on the other hand, has already attempted blowing the bastard up once already. While crude, at least he’d had the guts to go for it, unlike Dumbledore. So, speaking to Regulus again later tonight is a priority.

But first… first she needs to deal with Sirius. Still, no reason to let the mutt know his younger brother remains alive and kicking. At least that way she might be able to get some free babysitting out of the deal.

 

Not that she’d trust Sirius with her little sunshine, but her beloved sister would have to continue the ruse, wouldn’t she?

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Poppy Evans is at his door. The littlest Evans, Lily's more tolerable sister (which, given that Petunia is the comparison, isn't saying much) is standing at the door.

Not to say he dislikes Poppy. He just thinks the girl could do with a little loosening up. She did quit Hogwarts though, kept her accidental baby while building a life for herself, and that takes guts. Guts and bravery. She's practically an honorary Gryffindor.

"Ah! Lil' Evans! Brought me my godson, have you?" It's said in jest; he's not that close to her. But hell, he's never actually seen Poppy Evans close to anyone. The only person he's ever known her interact with is his tosspot brother (there could never been any kind, friendly words spoke there) and even then, he's only known of that through the map. The Lil' Evans can obviously take care of herself; she'd never ended up in the hospital wing after her little run-ins with Mother's favourite son.

If she's anything like Lily though, it's a wonder his brat brother never ended up in the hospital wing.

Kinda makes a wizard wonder what poor sod planted a mandrake in that flowerbed.

The burning blue that’s currently searing into his own eyes is example enough of his point.

Smiling, Sirius throws open the front door to his fabulous little flat, a quick jerk of his wand behind his back banishing the leftovers from last night to the fridge. No need to offer up some reason for her to give him that same disapproving frown Lily had mastered in their third year. It must be genetic; Sirius eyes the little bundle in Poppy’s arms with suspicion, even more so when Poppy defensively cuddles the kid closer.

Okay, while he might never have had the same perceptiveness as Remus (there was a reason it’d taken the Marauders four years to click onto the werewolf in their midst), Sirius is far from stupid. Poppy Evans is hiding something and, being the nosy bugger that he is, Sirius absolutely wants to know just what that is.

“What brings you to my humble abode then, Lil-Evans?”

It’s at this point that Sirius’ hearing just… gives up.

It has to have given out on him, he has to have set off one too many fireworks. Hell, it still feels like his ears are ringing from the last burst of colourful explosions he’d set off. That final day of Seventh Year had been a damn good one. But it’s clearly obliterated his hearing.

Sirius can only stand there as Poppy slips past him, kicking off her shoes at the door like the civilised, sane person she claims to be. The kind of person who wouldn’t make a joke like what he swears he’s just heard.

“Are you not going to offer me a drink?”

“Yeah, a drink, sure. As soon as you tell me why you’re here.”

It’s the same thing again; Poppy opens her mouth, but Sirius is hearing something else that makes no sense at all, even though it’s said in the little Evans’ dry voice, now tinged with irritation.

Maybe he’s the one that needs a drink, a stiff one at that, just to calm his head.

 

Because he keeps hearing Evans’ say ‘I’ve brought your nephew over’.

 

She’s not even got that teasing smirk to her face that comes out whenever she references his and James’ bond as brothers in all but blood.

“Has Prongs pranked you, Lil’ Evans? ‘Cause every time you speak I keep hearing that you’ve brought my nephew over. You do know that Prongs and I aren’t really brothers, right?”

Grinning (and trying valiantly to ignore how very forced it feels, how is makes his cheeks ache), Sirius drops down onto the arm of the sofa, eyes never once leaving the girl that’s made herself right at home on his couch.

“I’m aware,” Poppy’s voice is dry, scratching against every last brain cell in Sirius’ head and then, looking utterly done with the conversation, she removes the tiny little tyke from the blanket he’s swathed in.

Sirius has but a moment to appreciate the brilliant red of the kid’s baby grow, to watch those tiny little legs kick weakly at the air.

Then he spots the neon green hair and something heavy settles in his stomach.

“Prongs’ already started pranking the little guy, huh?” He cannot remember the last time he ever had to put so much effort into saying a sentence, cannot remember the last time his mouth had ever dried up as much as this. Speaking is difficult, especially as he watches that baby fine hair steadily start to lighten at the roots.

Poppy is watching him, her face set in a hard challenge, daring him to, to do… well, something.

His brain is rather struggling to keep moving, to keep thinking right now.

“Sirius,” Poppy says, and he’s never heard her speak so severely, so intently before. Not even when she’d warned him off pranking Lily during their exam years.

 

“Sirius. I’ve brought your nephew over.” And this time it actually clicks.

 

 


	21. Chapter 21

 

 

Sirius is still staring at her. The only sound that truly fills his flat (which is about as clean as can be expected of a twenty-one-year-old single male's abode) is little Sol's tiny snuffles as he inhales. Poppy waits with baited breath, one arm keeping Sol comfortably laid against her chest while the other grasps her wand, the tip glowing with an uncast protego.

If Regulus is a monsoon, a torrential downpour flooding her world with his very presence and leaving her drowning past saturation point, then Sirius is a tornado. Utterly unpredictable and offering her no kind of aid (everything needs water to live, Regulus is just that water in excess), she's only waiting for the spark of ignition that'll birth a firenado; wild and unmanageable, a force of nature she'd have no choice but to wait out from a safe distance.

Poppy much prefers the deluge to the gale.

"Nephew," Sirius finally whispers, though it does not come in the short rasp, does not come as a strangled croak as she'd been expecting. He's still staring at her and there's something building up behind his eyes that she just can't identify. It doesn’t put her on edge, oddly enough, and after a moment... it clicks. There’s a lingering grief, hidden beneath that blanket of shock, nestled almost out of sight and she’d almost missed it. Of course, whatever else may have happened between them... they’re brothers. There’s strain between herself and Petunia, but Poppy’s got wonderful, supportive parents. Had they been in an environment where the divide between them was actively encouraged... well, begrudgingly sending a Christmas card certainly wouldn’t be happening, that much is clear.

The sympathy that wells in her gut for Sirius is strange and she doesn’t like it in the slightest.

When actual genuine tears gather in the corners of his eyes, Poppy grits her teeth, pulls up her metaphorical big girl pants, and stalks closer to the pureblood.

“Here.”

The look on Sirius’ face as he’s presented with a baby would be hilarious if it wasn’t her own precious son she was offering to let him hol... let him look at. Maybe stroke his cheek at a push. Sirius doesn’t move, just stares as if she’s presenting him with an unfinished rune array. Something that has every chance of blowing up in his face if he doesn’t know how to defuse and neutralise it. Sirius Orion Black did not take runes during his time at Hogwarts.

Poppy huffs, dropping down to seat herself on the couch beside Sirius. She deftly ignores how the material groans and whines beneath her weight. It’s a pre-setup prank spell. She’s not come out of her pregnancy fat.

“Nephew,” Sirius repeats, voice a little louder, a little clearer, this time around. Poppy watches him closely, carefully. Sol’s hair shimmers and fades into a muted gold, pale and near glittering against his ‘pureblood’ skin. She can’t think of a better way to describe it, just that the tone and feel is the same as Regulus’ baby-like flesh; unblemished and unmarked (if one ignores the painful dark etching of glaring mistakes the idiot has on his forearm). She determinedly ignores just how many pimples she’s popped and banished over the years.

“Nephew,” Poppy stresses for what will be the last time, message received or not. There are so many other ways she could be better spending her time than help0ing Sirius through an existence crisis (especially when Regulus is off cocking his way through attempted assassination of You-Know-Who) but… but Sirius is family now. Family beyond her brother in law’s best friend. He’s Sol’s uncle, his only blood uncle. Her baby boy might appreciate some more male presences in his life than just James and her father. Regulus himself is a given (she thinks); he’s made his intentions to stick around rather clear. (Here she tries not to think too much on how the hands, possessive, had felt on her hips. Tries not to recall how his eyes had hinted at a future she has given little consideration for. Quite frankly, it’s easier not to think on Regulus Black and instead to just let it happen. It’s that indulgence in a downpour, umbrella-less for a lack of planning, that has gifted her Sol).

“All those times on the map, you weren’t kicking the crap out of each other,” Sirius finally chokes out, grey eyes wide as he turns to look at her. It takes a moment for Poppy to realise what he’s saying, to recall just what ‘map’ it is that he’s speaking of.

“Thanks for racing to my rescue,” she rasps drily but Sirius isn’t listening at all. Ever so slowly (so hesitant and cautious it would probably be painful to watch for anyone else), Sirius reaches across the small space between them and traces the soft curve of Sol’s cheek with he tip of his finger. At the contact, something in the former Gryffindor seems to break because he barks out a (thankfully quiet) laugh, disbelief colouring the sound.

“You and Reggie. You and Reggie fucked.”

“Fucked isn’t exactly the term I’d use,” Poppy concedes with a low shrug of her shoulders. Oh, if only she had the energy to smirk. But she’s so past the point of caring right now (she’s got bigger things on her plate than teasing Sirius Black with crude jokes, no matter how delicious the idea would have once been) that she just cannot drum up the energy required. “More like used each other for orgasm.”

Sirius makes a noise she’s eighty percent sure he wouldn’t have been capable of producing were he not an animagus. Some kind of cross between a dog’s high-pitched whine of despair and a human’s horrified inhale. It looks like it winds him; oops. Oh well, he’ll get over it... at some point. Potentially. He places his forefinger against Sol’s palm and her darling little flower instantly takes hold of the man’s finger. And probably his heart if she goes by the expression on Sirius’ face. Good. One more protector for her little boy.

“I’ve got a nephew,” Sirius mutters and it’s with acceptance now. A simple head shake and that’s it. There’s no firestorm, no great tornado of fury and disbelief and none of Sirius’ usual drama whatsoever. Nothing at all.

Nothing barring a tentatively watery smile that is.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

“Did you find your sprog then.”

Grimacing, Regulus shoots Cassiopeia his best flare. It’s not where near the level required to handle his Great Aunt’s amusement, however. Even more irritating is how he’s now at a point of ignoring the woman to go and see his spawn. By Merlin, a minuscule part of his wants to see Eva- Poppy too. How horrific.

“Yes, I found him,” Regulus drawls, forcibly stalling the eyes that desperately wish to roll. His notes are spread out before him, the orchestra before a conductor. It just so happens that the melody he’s trying to lead is the Dark Lord’s downfall. The runic explosive trap had failed, the firepower insufficient and now he’ll be watching for something like that. Which means Regulus will have to try an alternate route. Something subtle, something where the effects won’t be noticed until it’s too late. A long-term curse won’t work’; the Dark Lord is too paranoid to not check himself over every few days for such a thing. It needs to be something he wouldn’t expect, something untraceable too. His concentration is, however, shot to hell. His mind is still a few hundred miles away, revolving around a small cottage home and the two people that reside within it. Exhaling soft and slow, Regulus runs a hand through his hair, suddenly; rather conscious of the length it has grown to. Will he appear too much like Sirius if he keeps it this long? Is it even something worth worrying over? Does Ev-Poppy even care for his appearance? Snorting, Regulus snaps his wand out across the multitude of notes, until they’re piled atop one another and stored within an expendable pouch. He’s getting nothing done here, the fact he’s worried about Poppy’s opinion of him is clear enough. She doesn’t seem particularly phased by the fact that, until recently, he’d whole-hearted believed she and the other mudbloods are beneath him. Perhaps that had been one of the appeals, dragging him down to her level (it’s clearly worked). If she likes his hair or not is hardly going to be of any substance in their relationship.

“And just where do you think you’re going?”

“To see my sprog,” Regulus snaps back, levelling his aunt a deeply suspicious look. The very fact she’d stuck around for so long is hint enough that she wants something but what that is, Regulus admittedly has no true idea. Lips pressed into a stiff line, Cassiopeia steps forwards and holds out a blanket. It’s the very same make that Regulus himself hazily recalls from childhood and he accepts it warily.

“It’s not cursed, is it?” The woman snorts, eyes rolling as she cocks both hands atop her hips. Full on lecture mode. Regulus forces himself not to groan in despair.

“Do you honestly think that if I wanted to harm your half-blood bastard I would do it myself? Of course not; I’d be informing the rest of the family just what kind of mess you’ve managed to get yourself into. As things stand,” Cassiopeia huffs, her expression such a thing that Regulus keeps his mouth firmly shut, mind whirling with several horrible things that his dear aunt might do should he interrupt, “I’m relieved to know the family line will continue, pure or not.”

“And it has nothing to do with the fact you want to study Sol’s metamorphmagus abilities.”

“Andromeda fled with her half-blood brat before I could get a good look in,” Cassiopeia admits with little not no shame whatsoever, “too many Blacks have forgotten the idea of keeping our blood pure was to retain the gifts that appear only in our magical bloodline. There’s not been a Black metamorphmagus in a century and now, the infusion of two mudbloods results in two metamorphmagus children? One could be ignored, but a second occurrence is a pattern and I have no intentions of allowing that to escape investigation.” He knew she was being kind for a reason, had known no one who could proudly call themselves a Black would have accepted his mistake without a motive of their own. By Merlin, it’s a wonder Cassiopeia has admitted it so openly. Yet, it can be acknowledged that if she’d kept her intentions secret from him, Regulus would have been suspicious enough to not even broach the subject of ever introducing her to his son. On that topic though-

“Wherever Sol goes, I cannot imagine Poppy being less than a foot behind.” Hell, on the miniscule chance that Poppy’d agree to allowing Sol to meet one of his side of the family, he cannot envision it happening anywhere but in Poppy’s cottage. Probably warded to the high-heavens against any form of ill-intent towards her and his child.

The look on Cassiopeia’s face showcase just how… enthused she is over the concept of sharing space with a mudblood. Half-blood is acceptable, but clearly a mud-muggleborn such as Poppy is too much too soon.

“I shall enquire with Poppy when the opportunity presents itself,” maybe when she’s half-drugged up on painkillers or otherwise sufficiently distracted, “but don’t hold your breath.” Undoubtedly Poppy would never entertain the idea until Sol is crawling at the very least given how… protective she has proven to be over their child.  No, the only being that Poppy would probably allow to be introduce to Sol is Kreacher. Even then it is only because Kreacher is blood-bound to serve the Black line, pure of blood or not, and Regulus shall most certainly be ordering the house-elf to protect his son. With any luck, Kreacher’s tendency to favour Regulus over the other Blacks shall extend to his son.

 

 


End file.
